On the way home Amos Crupper said to Sam Whitmarsh in his deep chest tones:
"Waal, that there was a fine sermon the young feller preached--a strong, powerful sermon. I like to listen to a good sermon an' read the news about the war. It makes a man feel like life hain't all but jes plantin' an' diggin' taters an' hoein' terbaccer."
"Yaas," agreed Uncle Sam, "sech things livens a feller up a bit an' makes him realize this life hain't all. I hearn you was needin' a buggy hoss, Amos. I got the finest little mare--dark bay--awful purty color--six year old no more, an' I'd--"
"No, Sam, she hain't fer me," Uncle Amos interrupted him smiling genially. "I knowed that there little mare when Pete Akers had her, an' I know she's twelve if she's a day an' she's had the heaves since she was little more'n a colt. You fix her up with a little dose o' birdshot to cover up them heaves an' take her to Georgetown on Court Day. You'll be able to trade her good an' mebbe put a little piece o' money in yer pocket."
On the way home Jabez Moorhouse, walking somberly alone, thought how his life had been wasted.
"I cud a made a preacher," he said to himself, "or a congressman or a jedge or learnt to play the fiddle good if I'd on'y had a chanct. But all my life I hain't done nothin' but dig in dirt. An' all the rest o' my life I'm a-goin' to keep right on a-diggin' in dirt."
He spat tobacco juice into the grass and uttered his favorite exclamation of disgust. It was a phrase of his own contriving, a rich verbal arabesque of profanity and obscenity cunningly inwrought.
Having thus partly relieved his feelings, he took a long pull from a bottle that he always carried in his pocket.
After several long pulls he felt much better and sang into the night a ballad with the oft-recurring refrain:
"You can't have my daughter without the gray mare."
On the way home Ziemer Whitmarsh overtook Abbie Gibbs, who had purposely hung behind the other members of her family, wound his arm about her slim, consumptive waist and drew her aside from the path.
On the way home Joe Barnaby and young Marsh Gibbs hesitated where a road making gang who were widening the pike to Georgetown had left their roller and other tools by the side of the road.