Until the boy grew up an' took hold of things,
the Revercombs warn't nothin' mo' than slack fisted, out-at-heel po'
white trash, as the niggers say, though the old man, Abel's grandfather,
al'ays lays claim to bein' connected with the real Revercombs, higher
up in the State--However that may be, befo' the war thar warn't no place
for sech as them, an' 'tis only since times have changed an' the bottom
begun to press up to the top that anybody has heerd of 'em. Abel went to
school somehow by hook or crook an' got a good bit of book larnin', they
say, an' then he came back here an' went to turnin' up every stone an'
stick on the place. He ploughed an' he sowed an' he reaped till he'd
saved up enough to buy that piece of low ground betwixt his house and
the grist-mill. Then Ebenezer Timberlake died of the dropsy an' the
first thing folks knew, Abel had moved over and turned miller. All the
grain that's raised about here now goes to his mill, an' they say he'll
be throwin' out the old and puttin' in new-fangled machinery befo' the
year is up. He's the foremost man in these parts, suh, unless you war to
come to Jordan's Journey to live like yo' uncle.
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