The crowd scattered, and for a few moments made a noisy pretence of beating
the shinn-oak thickets for imaginary snipe.
"Keep a-whisslin', Bud!" Mr. Cullum shouted, from the far edge of the
prairie. A prolonged whistle, with trills and flourishes, was the response;
and the conspirators, bursting with restrained laughter, plunged into the
ford and separated, making each for his own fireside.
Mrs. Cullum was nodding over the hearth-stone when her husband came in. The
six girls, from Minty--Jack Carter's buxom sweetheart--to Little Sis, the
baby, were long abed. The hands of the wooden clock on the high
mantel-shelf pointed to half-past twelve. "Well, pa," Sissy said,
good-humoredly, reaching out for the shovel and beginning to cover up the
fire, "you've cavorted pretty late this time! What's the matter?" she
added, suspiciously; "you ack like you've been drinkin'!"
For Tobe was rolling about the room in an ecstasy of uproarious mirth.
"I 'ain't teched nary drop, Sissy," Mr. Cullum returned, "but ever' time I
think about that fool Bud Mines a-settin' out yander at Buck Snort, holdin'
of a candle, and whisslin' fer snipe to run into that coffee-sack, I--oh
Lord!"
He stopped to slap his thighs and roar again.
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