Jonas. And Jonas felt as much seriousness as was
possible to him, until he heard Norman Anderson's voice crying with
terror and excitement, and felt Cynthy shudder on his arm.

"For my part," said Jonas, turning to Andrew, "it don't seem like as ef
it was much use to holler and make a furss about the corn crap when
October's fairly sot in, and the frost has nipped the blades. All the
plowin' and hoein' and weedin' and thinnin' out the suckers won't,
better the yield then. An' when wheat's ripe, they's nothin' to be done
fer it. It's got to be rep jest as it stan's. I'm rale sorry, to-night,
as my life a'n't no better, but what's the use of cryin' over it? They's
nothin' to do now but let it be gethered and shelled out, and measured
up in the standard half-bushel of the sanctuary. And I'm afeard they'll
be a heap of nubbins not wuth the shuckin'. But ef it don't come to six
bushels the acre, I can't help it now by takin' on."

At twelve o'clock, even the scoffers were silent. But as the sultry
night drew on toward one o'clock, Bill Day and his party felt their
spirits revive a little. The calculation had failed in one part, and it
might in all. Bill resumed his burlesque exhortations to the
rough-looking "brethren" about him. He tried to lead them in singing
some ribald parody of Adventist hymns, but his terror and theirs was
too genuine, and their voices died down into husky whispers, and they
were more alarmed than ever at discovering the extent of their own
demoralization. The bottle, one of those small-necked, big-bodied
quart-bottles that Western topers carry in yellow-cotton handkerchiefs,
was passed round. But even the whisky seemed powerless to neutralize
their terror, rather increasing the panic by fuddling their faculties.

"Boys!" said Bob Short, trembling, and sitting down on a stump,
"this--this ere thing--is a gittin' serious. Ef--well, ef it _was_ to
happen--you know--you don't s'pose--ahem--you don't think God A'mighty
would be _too_ heavy on a feller. Do ye? Ef it was to come to-night, it
would be blamed short notice."

At one o'clock the moon was just about dipping behind the hills, and the
great sycamores, standing like giant sentinels on the river's marge,
cast long unearthly shadows across the water, which grew blacker every
minute. The deepening gloom gave all objects in the river valley a
weird, distorted look. This oppressed August. The landscape seemed an
enchanted one, a something seen in a d