you got mighty purty
teeth."

The Blight showed hers in a radiant smile and the old woman turned back
to her.

"Oh, you've got both," she said and she shook her head, as though she
were thinking of the damage they had done. It was my time now--to ask
questions.

They didn't have many amusements on that creek, I discovered--and
no dances. Sometimes the boys went coon-hunting and there were
corn-shuckings, house-raisings and quilting-parties.

"Does anybody round here play the banjo?"

"None o' my boys," said the old woman, "but Tom Green's son down the
creek--he follers pickin' the banjo a leetle." "Follows pickin' "--the
Blight did not miss that phrase.

"What do you foller fer a livin'?" the old man asked me suddenly.

"I write for a living." He thought a while.

"Well, it must be purty fine to have a good handwrite." This nearly
dissolved the Blight and the little sister, but they held on heroically.

"Is there much fighting around here?" I asked presently.

"Not much 'cept when one young feller up the river gets to tearin' up
things. I heerd as how he was over to the Gap last week--raisin'
hell. He comes by here on his way home." The Blight's eyes opened
wide--apparently we were on his trail. It is not wise for a member of
the police guard at the Gap to show too much curiosity about the lawless
ones of the hills, and I asked no questions.

"They calls him the Wild Dog over here," he added, and then he yawned
cavernously.

I looked around with divining eye for the sleeping arrangements soon to
come, which sometimes are embarrassing to "furriners" who are unable to
grasp at once the primitive unconsciousness of the mountaineers and, in
consequence, accept a point of view natural to them because enforced by
architectural limitations and a hospitality that turns no one seeking
shelter from any door. They were, however, better prepared than I had
hoped for. They had a spare room on the porch and just outside the door,
and when the old woman led the two girls to it, I followed with their
saddle-bags. The room was about seven feet by six and was windowless.

"You'd better leave your door open a little," I said, "or you'll smother
in there."

"Well," said the old woman, "hit's all right to leave the door open.
Nothin's goin' ter bother ye, but one o' my sons is out a coon-huntin'
and he mought come in, not knowin' you're thar. But you jes' holler an'
he'll move on." She meant precisely what she said and sa