Towse had followed his master to the tanyard, and was lying asleep
beside the woodpile, with his muzzle on his forepaws.

He roused himself suddenly at the sound of munching, and came and
sat upright, facing Rufe, and eyeing the papaw gloatingly. He
wagged his tail in a beguiling fashion, and now and then turned his
head blandishingly askew.

Of course he would not have relished the papaw, and only begged as a
matter of habit or perhaps on principle; but he was given no
opportunity to sample it, for Rufe hardly noticed him, being
absorbed in dubiously watching Andy Byers, who was once more at
work, scraping the hide with the two-handled knife.

Jubal Perkins had gone into the house for a coal to re-kindle his
pipe, for there is always a smouldering fire in the "smoke-room" for
the purpose of drying the hides suspended from the rafters. He came
out with it freshly glowing, and sat down on the broad, high pile of
wood.

As the first whiff of smoke wreathed over his head, he said, "What
air the differ ter ye, Andy, whether 't war bub, hyar, or Birt, ez
dressed up the blackberry bush? ye 'pear ter make a differ a-twixt
'em."

Still Byers was evasive. "Whar's Birt, ennyhow?" he demanded
irrelevantly.

"Waal," drawled the tanner, with a certain constraint, "I hed been
promisin' Birt a day off fur a right smart while, an' I tole him ez