cuss words.  There was as many as one loafer leaning up against every awning-post, and he most always had his hands in his britches-pockets, except when he fetched them out to lend a chaw of tobacco or scratch.  What a body was hearing amongst them all the time was: “Gimme a chaw 'v tobacker, Hank.” “Cain't; I hain't got but one chaw left.  Ask Bill.” Maybe Bill he gives him a chaw; maybe he lies and says he ain't got none. Some of them kinds of loafers never has a cent in the world, nor a chaw of tobacco of their own.  They get all their chawing by borrowing; they say to a fellow, “I wisht you'd len' me a chaw, Jack, I jist this minute give Ben Thompson the last chaw I had”--which is a lie pretty much everytime; it don't fool nobody but a stranger; but Jack ain't no stranger, so he says: “_You_ give him a chaw, did you?  So did your sister's cat's grandmother. You pay me back the chaws you've awready borry'd off'n me, Lafe Buckner, then I'll loan you one or two ton of it, and won't charge you no back intrust, nuther.” “Well, I _did_ pay you back some of it wunst.” “Yes, you did--'bout six chaws.  You borry'd store tobacker and paid back nigger-head.” Store tobacco is flat black plug, but these fellows mostly chaws the natural leaf twisted.  When they borrow a chaw they don't generly cut it off with a knife, but set the plug in between their teeth, and gnaw with their teeth and tug at the plug with their hands till they get it in two; then sometimes the one that owns the tobacco looks mournful at it when it's handed back, and says, sarcastic: “Here, gimme the _chaw_, and you take the _plug_.” All the streets and lanes was just mud; they warn't nothing else _but_ mud--mud as black as tar and nigh about a foot deep in some places, and two or three inches deep in _all_ the places.  The hogs loafed and grunted around everywheres.  You'd see a muddy sow and a litter of pigs come lazying along the street and whollop herself right down in the way, where folks had