stove, a cigarette drooping from his lips, a remote twinkle in his eyes.
Johnny lushed down his second saucer of coffee before he attempted to marshall his thoughts into speech. But, having accomplished this, he said, "Doug and me are gregus great friends, Mr. Fowler. There ain't anybody in Lost Chief thinks as much of him as I do."
The preacher nodded. "Douglas says he's fond of you."
"I guess he is," returned Johnny, condescendingly. "I guess if the the truth be deponed, he's fonder of me than he is of anybody—excepting maybe Judith. And Judith, she sure-gawd don't apregate Doug like I do, even if I am a half-wit. Judith's awful smart but she ain't got much sense."
"Judith is pretty fine, Johnny!" exclaimed Douglas, with the faint glow in his blue eyes that mention of her name always brought.
"Yes, she is," agreed Johnny. "But she's just like her mother was. All fire. And you can squench fire so it's just ashes. It would be a gregus good thing for the Valley if John Spencer was to break his neck."
"Don't say that, Johnny!" protested the preacher. "After all, he's one of God's creatures."
Johnny chuckled. "Now, who is half-witted, huh?"
"Young Jeff back on the mail route, Johnny?" asked Douglas hastily.
"Yes. Peter Knight, he's awful fond of Judith."
Douglas looked at Johnny keenly, his jaw setting as he did so. Was there, he thought, something obvious here, or was it only the half-wit's curiously sharp but confused intuition at work? At any rate, he must know the truth. He could not endure this added uneasiness.
"On second thoughts," he said aloud, "I think I'll not
