It was past midnight before the laborious four finished their review of
the books and joined with Scattergood in giving Ovid a clean bill of
health.
"Didn't think Ovid had it in him to steal," said Kettleman.
"Hain't got no business stirrin' us up like this for nothin'," said
Atwell, acrimoniously.
"Maybe," suggested Scattergood, "Ovid's come down with a fit of
suthin'."
"Hope it's painful," said Lafe, "I'm a-goin' home to bed."
"What'll we do?" asked Deacon Pettybone.
"Nothin'," said Scattergood, "till some doin' is called fur. Calc'late I
better slip on my shoes. Might meet my wife." Mandy Scattergood was
doing her able best to break Scattergood of his shoeless ways.
"Guess we'll let Ovid git through when he comes back," said Deacon
Pettybone, harshly, making use of the mountain term to denote discharge.
There no one is ever discharged, no one ever resigns. The single phrase
covers both actions--the individual "gets through."
"I always figgered," said Scattergood, urbanely, "that it was allus
premature to git ahead of time.... I'm calc'latin' on runnin' down to
see what kind of a fit of ailment Ovid's come down with.
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