"Farmer, you're either a born liar or the darlin' o' luck."

"Aye: I feel it. I feel that overpowerin'ly."

"For my part," put in Mrs. Jim Lewarne, "I've given over follerin' the
freaks o' Fortune. They be so very undiscernin'."

And this sentence probably summed up the opinion of the majority.

In the midst of the excitement Young Zeb strode up to the stranger, who
stood a little behind the throng.

"Give me back my shoes," he said.

The other kicked them off and looked at him oddly.

"With pleasure. You'll find them a bit worn, I'm afraid."

"I'll chance that. Man, I'm not all sorry, either."

"Hey, why?"

"'Cause they'll not be worn agen, arter this night. Gentleman or devil,
whichever you may be, I bain't fit to dance i' the same parish with
'ee--no, nor to tread the shoeleather you've worn."

"By the powers!" cried the stranger suddenly, "two minutes ago I'd have
agreed with you. But, looking in your eyes, I'm not so sure of it."

"Of what?"