f a headstrong and wilful junior
who had listened unmoved to reason, and a mounting resentment kindled
in the gaze of the bearded moonshiner.

"I've done aimed ter talk reason with ye," barked the angry voice, "an'
hit don't seem ter convince ye none. Ef ther pattern of life I've sot
ye hain't good enough, do ye think ye're better than yore maw, too?"

"I didn't never say ye warn't good enough." The boy found himself
freezing into defiant stiffness under this misconstruction until his
very eagerness to be understood militated against him.

"Wa'al, I'll tell ye a thing I don't talk a heap about. Hit's a thing
thet happened when ye was a young baby. I spent two y'ars in prison
then fer makin' white whiskey."

"You!" Turner Stacy's eyes dilated with amazement and the older face
hardened with a baleful resentment.

"Hit warn't jest bein' put in ther jail-house thet I kain't fergit ner
fergive so long as I goes on livin'. Hit war ther _reason_. Ye talks
mighty brash erbout ther sacredness of ther Revenue laws--wa'al, listen
ter me afore ye talks any more." He paused and then continued, as if
forcing himself to an unwelcome recital.

"I've always borne the name hyarabouts of bein' a law-abidin' citizen
and a man thet could be trusted. I'd hoped ter bring peace to the
mountings, but when they lawed me and sent me down to Looeyville fer
trial, ther Govern_ment_ lawyer 'lowed thet sence I was a prominent
citizen up hyar a-breakin' of the law, they had ought to make a sample
of me. Because my reputation was good I got two y'ars. Ef hit hed been
bad, I mout hev come cl'ar."

The son took an impulsive step forward, but with an imperious wave of
the hand, his father halted him and the chance for a sympathetic
understanding was gone.

"Hold on! I hain't quite done talkin' yit. In them days we war livin'
over ther ridge, whar Little Ivy heads up. You thinks this hyar's a
pore fashion of dwellin'-house, but _thet_ one hed jest a single room
an' na'ry a winder in all hits four walls. You're maw war right ailin'
when they tuck me away ter ther big Co'te an' she war mighty young,
too, an' purty them days afore she broke. Thar warn't no man left ter
raise ther crops, an' _you_ ra'red like a young calf ef ye didn't git
yore vittles reg'lar.

"I reckon mebby ye hain't hardly got no proper idee how long two y'ars
kin string out ter be when a man's sulterin' behind bars with a young
wife an' a baby thet's liable ter be starvin' mean