I think the hunchback had no idea of the moods of nature; at any rate they never seemed to affect him. To him all water was something to drink or something to swim in, and the earth was good pasture or hard road to ride a horse over. The grasp of no agnostic was more cynical. He inquired if any of Woodford's men had crossed that day, and was answered that they had not.
Then he began to hum a hoary roundelay about the splendid audacity of old Mister Haystack and his questionable adventures, set to an unprintable refrain of "Winktum bolly mitch-a-kimo," or some such jumble of words. I have never heard this song in the mouth of any other man. He must have found it somewhere among the dusty trumpery of forgotten old folk-lyrics, and when he sang it one caught the force of the Hebraic simile about the crackling of thorns under a pot.
Jud laughed, and the hunchback piped a higher cackle and dangled his bridle rein. "Humph," he said, "maybe you don't like that song."
"It ain't the song," replied Jud.
"Maybe you don't like the way I sing it," said he.
"It might be different," said Jud.
"Well," said he, "it wouldn't mean different."
Here I took a hand in the dialogue. "What does it mean anyhow?" I said. "It's about the foolest song I ever heard."
"Quiller," replied the hunchback, propping his fist under his bony jaw, "you've heard tell of whistlin' to keep up your courage. Well, that song was made for them as can't whistle."
Jud turned in astonishment. "Afraid?" he said; "what are you afraid of?"
The hunchback leaned over as if about to impart a secret. "Ghosts!" he whispered. I laughed at the discomfiture of the giant, but Ump went on counterfeiting a deep and weird seriousness which, next to his singing, was about the most ludicrous thing in the world. "Ghosts, my laddiebuck. But not the white-sheeted lady that comes an' says, 'Foller me,' nor the spook that carries his head under his arm tied up in a tablecloth, but ghosts, my laddiebuck, that make tracks while they walk."
"I thought ghosts rode broomsticks," said Jud.
"Nary a broomstick," replied the hunchback. "When they are a-follerin' Mister Ward's drovers, it's a little too peaked for long ridin'."
Then he broke off suddenly and called to the ferryman. "Danel," he said, "how many cattle will this boat hold?"
"Big cattle or stockers?" inquired the man.
"Exporters," said Ump.
"Mart," called the brother, "can we carry thirty exporters?"
"Are they dehorned?" inquired Mart.
"Muley," said Ump.
"We can carry thirty muleys if they ain't nervous," replied the brother called Mart. "Are you gatherin' up some cattle for Mister Ward?"