to earn the salary attached to his
position.

The presence of a stranger at the hospitable tavern of Squire Pleasants
attracted the attention of the old and young men of leisure, and the
most of them gathered upon the long narrow piazza to discuss the
matter. Uncle Jimmy Wright, the sage of the village, had inspected the
name in the register and approved of it. He had heard of it before, and
he proceeded to give a long and rambling account of whole generations
of Woodwards. Jake Cohen, a pedlar, who with marevelous tact had fitted
himself to the conditions of life and society in the moutains, and who
was supposed to have some sort of connection with the traffice in
"blockade" whisky, gravely inquired of Squire Pleasants if the
new-comer had left any message for him.

Doubtless the squire, or some one else, would have attempted a
facetious reply to Mr. Watson; but just then a tall, gaunt,
grey-haired, grizzly-bearded man stepped upon the piazza, and saluted the
little gathering with an awkward wave of the hand. The not unkindly
expression of his face was curiously heightened (or deepened) by the
alertness of his eyes, which had the quizzical restlessness we
sometimes see in the eyes of birds or animals. It was Teague Poteet,
and the greetings he received were of the most effusive character.

"Howdy, boys, howdy!" he said in response to the chorus. "They hain't
airy one er you gents kin split up a twenty-dollar chunk er greenbacks,
is they?"

Tip Watson made a pretence of falling in a chair and fainting, but he
immediately recovered, and said in a sepulchral whisper--

"Ef you find anybody dead, an' they ain't got no twenty-dollar bill on
their person, don't come a-knockin' at my door. Lord!" he continued,
"look at Cohen's upper lip a-trimblin'. He wants to take that bill out
somewheres an' hang it on a clothesline."

"Ow!" exclaimed Cohen, "yoost lizzen at date man! Date Teep Vatsen, he
so foony as allt tern utter peoples put tergetter. Vait, Teague, vait!
I chanche date pill right avay, terreckerly."

But Teague was absorbed in some information which Squire Pleasants was
giving him.

"He don't favour the gang," the squire was saying with emphasis, "an'
I'll be boun' he ain't much mixed up wi' 'em. He's another cut. Oh,
they ain't a-foolin' me this season of the year," he continued, as
Teague Poteet shook his head doubtfully; "he ain't mustered out'n my
mind yit, not by a dad-blamed sight. I'm jest a-tellin' of