"Kun'l Gideon Ward is--is--wall, he's Kun'l Gideon Ward."

Jordan backed away suddenly at the oath the Cap'n ripped out.

"He owns more timber land than any other man in the county. He hires
more men than any one else. He ain't never been downed in a trade
or a fight yet. He's got double teeth, upper and lower, all the way
round, drinks kairosene in the winter 'cause it's more warmin' than
rum, and--and--"

"Well, what's that got to do with his runnin' toll on this bridge?"
demanded the Cap'n.

"Bridge piers hold up his logs, he says, and he ain't never goin'
to pay toll till the bridgemen pay him for loss of time on logs. It's
been what you might call a stand-off for a good many years. Best thing
is to let him run toll. That's what your uncle thought. I reckoned
you knew all about Kun'l Gid Ward. Why, everybody knows--"

"Say, you let up on that string right now and here," snorted the
Cap'n.

Old Man Jordan trotted away.

While the skipper was still pondering on the matter of Colonel
Ward--the meditation had lasted over into the next day--there was
a roar on the bridge, and the subject of his reflections passed in
a swirl of dust on his return trip. He was standing up in his wagon
as before, and he saluted the indignant toll-man with a flick of his
whip that started the dust from the latter's pea-jacket.