"Hit's Frale done hit. He an' Ferd'nan' Teasley, they set up 'stillin' ovah in Dark Cornder yandah. Hit do work a heap o' trouble, that thar. I reckon you-uns don't have nothin' sich whar you come from?"
"We have things quite as bad. So they quarrelled, did they?"
"Yaas, they quarrelled, an' they fit."
"No doubt they had been drinking."
"Yas, I reckon."
"But just a drunken quarrel between those two ought not to affect all the rest. Couldn't you patch it up among you, and keep the boy at home? You must need his help on the place."
"We need him bad here, but the' is no way fer to make up an' right a blood feud. Frale done them mean. He lifted his hand an' killed his friend. Hit war Sunday evenin' he done hit. They had been havin' a singin' thar at the mill, an' preachah, he war thar too, an' all war kind an' peaceable; an' Ferd an' Frale, they sot out fer thar 'still'—Ferd on foot an' Frale rid'n' his horse—the one you have now—they used to go that-a-way, rid'n' turn about—one horse with them an' one horse kep' alluz hid nigh the 'still' lest the gov'nment men come on 'em suddent like. Frale, he war right cute, he nevah war come up with.