voice that Abner used when he was standing close behind his words. Every man in the hills knew that voice; one had only a moment to decide after he heard it. Dix knew that, and yet for one instant he hung there on his toes, his eyes shimmering like a weasel's, his mouth twisting. He was not afraid! If he had had the ghost of a chance against Abner he would have taken it. But he knew he had not, and with an oath he threw the saddle blanket into a corner and sat down by the fire.
Abner came away from the door then. He took off his great coat. He put a log on the fire and he sat down across the hearth from Dix. The new hickory sprang crackling into flames. For a good while there was silence; the two men sat at either end of the hearth without a word. Abner seemed to have fallen into a study of the man before him. Finally he spoke:
"Dix," he said, "do you believe in the providence of God?"
Dix flung up his head.
"Abner," he cried, "if you are going to talk nonsense I promise you upon my oath that I will not stay to listen."
Abner did not at once reply. He seemed to begin now at another point.
"Dix," he said, "you've had a good deal of bad luck. . . . Perhaps you wish it put that way."
"Now, Abner," he cried, "you speak the truth; I have had hell's luck."
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