"Revenue men's as thick through heer as flies in summer-time," broke in
the man at the faucet. "Sh! what's that?"

Westerfelt's horse had stepped on a dry twig. There was silence for a
moment, then Dill laughed softly.

"Nothin' but a acorn drappin'. You fellers is afeerd o' yore shadders;
what does the gang mean by sendin' out sech white-livered chaps?" The
only sound for a moment was the gurgling of the whiskey as it ran into
the jug. "How's Toot like his isolation?" concluded Dill, grunting as
he lifted the jug down from the wagon.

"It's made a wuss devil 'n ever out'n 'im," was the answer. "He don't
do a blessed thing now but plot an' plan fer revenge. He's beginnin'
to think that hotel gal's gone back on 'im an' tuk to likin' the feller
he fit that day. My Lord, that man'll see the day he'll wish he'd
never laid eyes on Wambush."

"I hain't in entire sympathy with Toot." It was Dill's voice. "That
is to say, not entire!"

"Well, don't say so, ef you know what's good fer you."

"Oh, it's a free country, I reckon."

"Don't you believe it!"

"What's Toot gwine to do?"

"I don't know, but he'll hatch out some'n."