“No, you won’t,” said Grandpa. “Come on, I’m going to lock up.”
Begrudgingly, they walked out. I helped Grandpa start the mill and we proceeded to grind the corn.
The Pritchard boys had followed us and were standing looking on.
Rainie walked over to me. “I hear you have some good hounds,” he said.
I told him I had the best in the country. If he didn’t believe me, he could just ask my grandfather.
He just leered at me. “I don’t think they’re half as good as you say they are,” he said.
“Bet our old blue tick hound can out-hunt both of them.” I laughed, “Ask Grandpa who brings in the most hides.”
“I wouldn’t believe him. He’s crooked,” he said. I let him know right quick that my grandfather wasn’t crooked.
“He’s a storekeeper, ain’t he?” he said. I glanced over at Grandpa. He had heard the remark made by Rainie.
His friendly old face was as red as a turkey gobbler’s wattle.
The last of my corn was just going through the grinding stones. Grandpa pushed a lever to one side, shutting off the power.
He came over and said to Rainie, “What do you do? Just go around looking for trouble. What do you want, a fight?”
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