The halt here was a necessary feature in Zeke's itinerary. On a previous visit to the store, he had purchased a pair of serviceable, if rather ungainly, shoes. Since he would have no occasion for their use at home, he had saved himself the trouble of carrying them to and fro.
"I reckon I'll take them-thar shoes o' mine," he said to the grizzled proprietor, after an exchange of friendly greetings with the few loungers present. These were well aware of his planned departure, though ignorant of his definite aims.
"Ye hain't a-goin' to put 'em on yit, be ye?" the storekeeper inquired, solicitously.
"Not till I git to North Wilkesboro'," Zeke answered, to the obvious relief of the assembly, as he opened the bag. While he was busy stowing the shoes, the onlookers commented cynically on the follies of fashion.
"An' I've hearn tell," one concluded, "that durn-nigh everybody done war shoes in the city, all year roun'."
Perhaps the young man felt a pleasant glow of superiority in reflecting on the fact that such following of city fashion would soon distinguish him. But his innocent vanity was not to be unduly flattered.
"Ca'late to stay away till ye've made yer fortin, in course, sonny?" one of the older men suggested. He enjoyed some local reputation as a wag, the maintenance of which so absorbed his energies that his wife, who had lost whatever sense of humor she might once have had, toiled both indoors and out.
"Why, yes, o' course," Zeke replied unsuspectingly.
"Better kiss we-uns good-by, sonny," was the retort. "You-all 'll be gone quite some time."
The sally was welcomed with titters and guffaws. Zeke was red to the ears with mortification and anger, as he shut the valise, shouldered it, and strode to the door. But even in the time of that passing, he mastered his mood in a measure. He had no wish to make his farewell to these neighbors in bitterness of spirit. So, at the door, he turned and grinned amiably on the group.
"I want pleasant things to remember hyarabouts, all thet-thar long time I got to be away," he said, with a quizzical drawl; "so I kain't be a-kissin' o' ye none. My stomick hain't none so strong nohow," he added, with the coarseness that usually flavored the humor of the countryside.
Then, abruptly, the smile left his lips; the lines of his face hardened; the hazel eyes brightened and widened a little. His low, slow voice came firmly, with a note of tense earnestness. It was as if he spoke to himself, rather than to the slouching men, who regarded him curiously.