"Why, it lays bout'n haffen mile off--all down the ravine nigh that
thar salt-lick; but look-a-hyar, Birt--what ails ye?"

The stunned despair in the white face had at last arrested his
careless attention.

"Don't ye be mindin' of me--I feel sorter porely an' sick all of a
suddint; tell on 'bout the land an' sech," said Birt.

He sat down on the end of the wood-pile, and Tim, still leaning on
the rifle, recommenced. He was generally much cowed and kept down
by Nate, and was unaccustomed to respect and consideration.
Therefore he felt a certain gratification in having so attentive a
listener.

"Waal, I never hearn o' this fashion o' enterin' land like Nate done
in all my life afore; though dad say that's the law in Tennessee,
ter git a title ter vacant land ez jes' b'longs ter the State.
Mebbe them air the ways ez Nate l'arned whilst he war a-hangin'
round the Settlemint so constant, an' forever talkin' ter the men
thar."

Birt's precocity had never let him feel at a disadvantage with Nate,
although his friend was five years older. Now he began to
appreciate that Nate was indeed a man grown, and had become
sophisticated in the ways of his primitive world by his association
with the other men at the Settlement.

There was a pause. But the luxury of being allowed to talk without
contradiction or rebuke presently induced Tim to proceed.