“Hit’s agin the law for a chap to stay shet in jail, but Logg gets right free when he’s needing votes. He could put a cot and chair in the hall, and that wouldn’t be in jail nor out.”

“Getting late,” Uncle Toll complained. “I’ll talk to Logg, and mosey along. I figure Logg’U let me have my way. My vote is good as the next ‘un.”

Logg said I could stay. I wanted to, though I knew first frost would come any morning now, and I would miss my fill of pawpaws. They were best after a killing frost, mushy and sweet, falling apart almost at the touch.

When Uncle Toll was ready to go, I went into the yard to see him off. He rode away, the horse-mule walking swiftly toward the forks with his great bones sticking out hard and sharp. Uncle Jolly leaned against the window bars and called down. “First time I ever seed a feller straddling a quilting frame.”

With election time near, the county seat was filled with people, their mounts chocking stiff heels in the courthouse yard. Before daylight, horses came sloshing through the creek, setting hoofs carefully into dark waters.

“Candidates thicker’n groundhogs in a roast-ear patch,” Logg told us. “Got where a feller can’t go down the road peaceable.”

“Bet you argue as many votes as the next ‘un,” Uncle Jolly said.

“I don’t worry a man’s years off.”

“You’d vote your ol’ nag and jinny if they was registered.”

“I get a vote any way can be got, buy or swap, hogback or straddle-pole, but when they’re drapped in the ballot box, I allus say: ‘Boys, count ‘em square and honest.’”

Two days before Uncle Jolly’s time was up, Logg came hurrying from the courthouse. He came with his keys jingling on his belt, and we heard him coming afar.

“I seen Les Honeycutt talking to Judge Mauldin,” Logg said. “I figger he’s trying to get you sent back to Frankfort. Les’s folks can swing nigh every vote on Jones Fork, and the judge knows it. He can’t be re-elected with the Honeycutts agin him.”

“I never pushed Les’s .ribs in fur enough,” Uncle Jolly said. “I reckon the judge hain’t going to give plumb over. He’ll be needing a few Baldridge and Middleton votes on Little Carr and Defeated Creek. That Les Honeycutt ought to have his long nose trimmed and pickled in vinegar. He hain’t got a chance o’ locking me away from Tina Sawyers. You can’t lock bees from a honeycomb.”