That was Mart at last

``Mart!'' she said coaxingly; ``git up thar now an' climb over inter bed with that ar stranger.''

That was Mart at last, over in the corner.  Mart turned, grumbled, and, to my great pleasure, swore that he wouldn't.  The old woman waited a moment.

``Mart,'' she said again with gentle imperiousness, `` git up thar now, I tell ye --you've got to sleep with that thar stranger.''

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She closed the door and with a snort Mart piled into bed with me.  I gave him plenty of room and did not introduce myself.  A little more dark silence--the shaking of the bed under the hilarity of those astonished, bethrilled, but thoroughly unfrightened young women in the dark corner on my left ceased, and again the door opened.  This time it was the hired man, and I saw that the trouble was either that neither Mart nor Buck wanted to sleep with the hired man or that neither wanted to sleep with me.  A long silence and then the boy Buck slipped in.  The hired man delivered himself with the intonation somewhat of a circuit rider.

``I've been a-watchin' that star thar, through the winder.  Sometimes hit moves, then hit stands plum' still, an' ag'in hit gits to pitchin'.''  The hired man must have been touching up mean whiskey himself.  Meanwhile, Mart seemed to be having spells of troubled slumber.  He would snore gently, accentuate said snore with a sudden quiver of his body and then wake up with a climacteric snort and start that would shake the bed.  This was repeated several times, and I began to think of the unfortunate Tom who was ``fitified.''  Mart seemed on the verge of a fit himself, and I waited apprehensively for each snorting climax to see if fits were a family failing.  They were not.  Peace overcame Mart and he slept deeply, but not I.  The hired man began to show symptoms.  He would roll and groan, dreaming of feuds, _quorum pars magna fuit_, it seemed, and of religious conversion, in which he feared he was not so great.  Twice he said aloud:

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``An' I tell you thar wouldn't a one of 'em have said a word if I'd been killed stone-dead.''  Twice he said it almost weepingly, and now and then he would groan appealingly:

``O Lawd, have mercy on my pore soul!''

Fortunately those two tired girls slept-- I could hear their breathing--but sleep there was little for me.  Once the troubled soul with the hoe got up and stumbled out to the water-bucket on the porch to soothe the fever or whatever it was that was burning him, and after that he was quiet.  I awoke before day.  The dim light at the window showed an empty bed--Buck and the hired man were gone.  Mart was slipping out of the side of my bed, but the girls still slept on.  I watched Mart, for I guessed I might now see what, perhaps, is the distinguishing trait of American civilization down to its bed-rock, as you find it through the West and in the Southern hills--a chivalrous respect for women.  Mart thought I was asleep.  Over in the corner were two creatures the like of which I supposed he had never seen and would not see, since he came in too late the night before, and was going away too early now --and two angels straight from heaven could not have stirred my curiosity any more than they already must have stirred his.  But not once did Mart turn his eyes, much less his face, toward the corner where they were--not once, for I watched him closely.  And when he went out he sent his little sister back for his shoes, which the night-walking hired man had accidentally kicked toward the foot of the strangers' bed.  In a minute I was out after him, but he was gone.  Behind me the two girls opened their eyes on a room that was empty save for them.  Then the Blight spoke (this I was told later).

Edward was annoyed at all this

Edward was annoyed at all this; Lettice resented it.  She loved her husband dearly, and was proud of him, for she had discernment enough to see how superior he was in every way to her cousins, the young Holsters, who borrowed his horses, drank his wines, and yet had caught their father's habit of sneering at his profession.  Lettice wished that Edward would content himself with a purely domestic life, would let himself drop out of the company of the --shire squirearchy, and find his relaxation with her, in their luxurious library, or lovely drawing-room, so full of white gleaming statues, and gems of pictures.  But, perhaps, this was too much to expect of any man, especially of one who felt himself fitted in many ways to shine in society, and who was social by nature.  Sociality in that county at that time meant conviviality.  Edward did not care for wine, and yet he was obliged to drink--and by-and-by he grew to pique himself on his character as a judge of wine.  His father by this time was dead; dead, happy old man, with a contented heart--his affairs flourishing, his poorer neighbours loving him, his richer respecting him, his son and daughter-in-law, the most affectionate and devoted that ever man had, and his healthy conscience at peace with his God.
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Lettice could have lived to herself and her husband and children.
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Edward daily required more and more the stimulus of society.  His wife wondered how he could care to accept dinner invitations from people who treated him as "Wilkins the attorney, a very good sort of fellow," as they introduced him to strangers who might be staying in the country, but who had no power to appreciate the taste, the talents, the impulsive artistic nature which she held so dear.  She forgot that by accepting such invitations Edward was occasionally brought into contact with people not merely of high conventional, but of high intellectual rank; that when a certain amount of wine had dissipated his sense of inferiority of rank and position, he was a brilliant talker, a man to be listened to and admired even by wandering London statesmen, professional diners-out, or any great authors who might find themselves visitors in a --shire country- house.  What she would have had him share from the pride of her heart, she should have warned him to avoid from the temptations to sinful extravagance which it led him into.  He had begun to spend more than he ought, not in intellectual--though that would have been wrong--but in purely sensual things.  His wines, his table, should be such as no squire's purse or palate could command.  His dinner- parties--small in number, the viands rare and delicate in quality, and sent up to table by an Italian cook--should be such as even the London stars should notice with admiration.  He would have Lettice dressed in the richest materials, the most delicate lace; jewellery, he said, was beyond their means; glancing with proud humility at the diamonds of the elder ladies, and the alloyed gold of the younger. But he managed to spend as much on his wife's lace as would have bought many a set of inferior jewellery.  Lettice well became it all. If as people said, her father had been nothing but a French adventurer, she bore traces of her nature in her grace, her delicacy, her fascinating and elegant ways of doing all things.  She was made

for society; and yet she hated it.

this was not the change on the village

　　But, this was not the change on the village, and on many a village like it. For scores of years gone by, Monseigneur had squeezed it and wrung it, and had seldom graced it with his presence except for the pleasures of the chase--now, found in hunting the people; now, found in hunting the beasts, for whose preservation Monseigneur made edifying spaces of barbarous and barren wilderness. No. The change consisted in the appearance of strange faces of low caste, rather than in the disappearance of the high-caste, chiseled, and otherwise beatified and beatifying features of Monseigneur.

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　　For, in these times, as the mender of roads worked, solitary, in the dust, not often troubling himself to reflect that dust he was and to dust he must return, being for the most part too much occupied in thinking how little he had for supper and how much more he would eat if he had it--in these times, as he raised his eyes from his lonely labour, and viewed the prospect, he would see some rough figure approaching on foot, the like of which was once a rarity in those parts, but was now a frequent presence. As it advanced, the mender of roads would discern without surprise, that it was a shaggy-haired man, of almost barbarian aspect, tall, in wooden shoes that were clumsy even to the eyes of a mender of roads, grim, rough, swart, steeped in the mud and dust of many highways, dank with the marshy moisture of many low grounds, sprinkled with the thorns and leaves and moss of many byways through woods.

　　Such a man came upon him, like a ghost, at noon in the July weather, as he sat on his heap of stones under a bank, taking such shelter as he could get from a shower of hail.

　　The man looked at him, looked at the village in the hollow, at the mill, and at the prison on the crag. When he had identified these objects in what benighted mind he had, he said, in a dialect that was just intelligible:

　　`How goes it, Jacques?'

　　`All well, Jacques.'

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　　`Touch then!'

　　They joined hands, and the man sat down on the heap of stones.

　　`No dinner?'

　　`Nothing but supper now,' said the mender of roads, with a hungry face.

　　`It is the fashion,' growled the man. `I meet no dinner anywhere.'

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The identification did little to ease their feeling of incredulous mystification. But it banished their superstitious dread. Both of them were used to dogs. And though neither could guess how this particular dog happened to be stealing the twice-stolen baby, yet neither had the remotest fear of tackling the beast and rescuing its human plunder.

Roodie brought the abused runabout to another jerky stop within a few inches of the unconcerned collie. And he and Eitel swarmed earthward from opposite sides of the machine. In a trice, Roodie had struck Lad over the head; while Eitel grabbed at the bundle to drag it away from the dog.
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Now, the weight of years was beginning to tell on Laddie. But that weight had not robbed him of the ability to call, at will, upon much of his oldtime strength and bewildering swiftness. Nor had it in any way dampened his hero-spirit or dulled his uncannily wise brain.

He had been plodding peacefully along, bearing home a wonderful gift--a gift oftener confided to the care of storks than of collies--when he had been attacked from two sides in most unprovoked fashion. He had been struck! His blood surged hot.

There was no Law governing such a case. So, as usual in new crises, Lad proceeded to make his own Law and to put it into effect.

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A deft turn of the head eluded Eitel's snatching hand. With the lightness of a feather, Lad deposited the bundle in the soft dust of the road. In practically, the same gesture, the dog's curving eye-tooth slashed Eitel's outstretched wrist to the bone.

Then, staggering under a second head-blow from Roodie, the collie wheeled with lightning-swift fury upon this more hostile of his two assailants.

Hurling himself at the man's throat, in silent ferocity, he well-nigh turned the nocturnal battle into a killing. But Roodie's left arm, by instinct, flew up to guard his threatened jugular.

Through coat and shirt and skin and flesh,--as in the case of Lady's slayer,--the great dog's teeth clove their way; their rending snap checked only by the bone of the forearm. The impetus of his eighty-pound body sent the man clean off his balance. And together the two crashed backward to the ground.

Lad was not of the bulldog breed which seeks and gains a hold and then hangs on to it with locked jaws. A collie fights with brain as much as with teeth. By the time he and Roodie struck the earth, Lad tore free from the unloving embrace and whizzed about to face the second of his foes.

She smiled in bewilderment.

She smiled in bewilderment. And then she saw the dark shadow high overhead winging its way toward her, slow and lazy and as inevitable as winter cold. Her heart lurched in dismay as she watched it take shape. Not for a second did she think it was one of the Wing Riders come in search of her. Not for an instant did she mistake it for a friend. It was Gloon she was seeing. She knew him instantly. She recognized the blocky muscled body, the jut of the war shrike's fierce crested head, the sharp hook of the broad wings. She swallowed against her fear. No wonder the Seekers had fallen back. There was no need to hurry with Gloon to hunt her down.

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Tib Ame would be riding him, of course. In her mind she saw the boy's chameleon face, first friend, then foe; human, then Shadowen. She could hear his grating laughter, feel the heat of his breath on her face as he struck her, taste the blood in her mouth from the blows ... She looked about for a place to hide and quickly discarded the idea. She was already seen, and wherever she hid she would be found. She could either run or fight-and she was tired of running.

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She reached down into her tunic and took out the Elfstones. She balanced them in her hand, as if the weight of their magic could be determined and so the outcome of her battle decided early. She glanced west to the horizon, but there was nothing to see, the forests still lost below the horizon. No one would be searching for her anyway-not this far out and not at night. She gritted her teeth, thinking of Garth again, wondering what he would do. She watched Gloon wing his way closer, taking his time, riding the wind currents smoothly, easily, confident in his power and skill, in what he could do.

I'm not

He realized Damson was studying him, a hard, probing look, and without warning his suspicions flared anew. Damson Rhee-was she the friend that Par believed or the enemy he sought so desperately to escape. Certainly she could have been the reason he'd had so many narrow escapes, the reason the Shadowen had almost trapped him so many times. But then, too, wasn't she also the reason he had escaped?

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"You're not certain of me, are you? " she asked quietly. "No," he admitted. "I'm not." She nodded. "I don't know what I can do to convince you, Morgan. I don't know that I even want to try. I have to spend whatever energy is left me finding a way to free Padishar. Then I will go in search of Par."

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He looked away into the trees, thinking of the dark suspi- cions that the Shadowen bred in all of them, wishing it could be otherwise. "When I was at the Jut with Padishar," he said, "I was forced to kill a girl who was really a Shadowen." He looked back at her. "Her name was Teel. My friend Steff was in love with her, and it cost him his life." He told her then of Teel's betrayals and the eventual con- frontation deep within the' catacombs of the mountains behind the Jut where he had killed the Shadowen who had been Teel and saved Padishar Creel's life. "What frightens me," he said, "is that you could be another Teel and Par could end up like Steff."

She smiled.

Wren sat back against a half-fallen acacia whose exposed roots maintained a tenuous grip on the mountain rock. The Ruhk Staff rested on her lap, momentarily forgotten. Faun bur- rowed into her shoulder for a time as the tremors continued, then disappeared down inside her blanket to hide. She watched the small, solid figure of Dal slip past to take the first watch.

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Her eyes were heavy as she stared out at the dark, but she found she was not yet ready to sleep. She needed to think awhile first. She had been sitting there for only a few moments when Gavilan appeared. He came out of the darkness rather suddenly, and she started in spite of herself. "Sorry," he apologized hurriedly. "Can I sit with you awhile?" She nodded wordlessly, and he settled himself next to her, his own blanket wrapped loosely about his shoulders, his hair tangled and damp. His handsome face was etched with fatigue, but a hint of the familiar smile appeared. "How are you feeling?" "I'm all right," she answered.

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"You look very tired." She smiled. "Would that we had known," he murmured. She glanced over. "Known what?" "Everything. Anything! Something that would have prepared us better for what we're going through." His voice sounded odd to her, almost frenetic. "It is almost like being cast adrift in an ocean without a map and being told to navigate to safety and at the same time to refrain from using the little bit of drinking water we are fortunate enough to carry with us." "What do you mean?"

in which Uhl Belk was imprisoned.

The eyes that could see everything had seen the death of his child and the transformation of the land of the Stone King. The Maw Grint was no more. The city of Eldwist had gone back into the earth, returned to the elements that had created it, and the land was green and fertile again. The magic of his child was rooted deep, a river that flowed invisibly about the solitary dome

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The Druid of Shannara 369 in which Uhl Belk was imprisoned. It would be long before his brother could emerge into the light again. Iridescent dragonflies buzzed past him without slowing and disappeared into the twilight's glow. Elsewhere, the battle against the Shadowen went on. Walker Boh had invoked the magic of the Black Elfstone, as AUanon had charged him, and the Druid's Keep had been summoned out of the mists that had hidden it for three centuries. What would the Dark Uncle make, the King of the Silver River won- dered, of what he found there? West, where the Elves had once lived. Wren Ohmsford continued her search to discover what had become of them-and, more important, though she did not yet realize it, what would become of herself. North, the brothers Par and Coil Ohmsford struggled toward each other and the secrets of the Sword of Shannara and the Shadowen magic. There were those who would help and those who would betray, and all of the wheels of chance that AUanon had set in motion could yet be stopped.

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The King of the Silver River rose and slipped into the waters of the pond momentarily, reveling in the cool wetness, letting himself become one with the flow. Then he emerged and passed down the Garden pathways, through stands of juniper and hem- lock onto a hillock ofcentauries and bluebells that reflected gold about the edges of their petals with the day's fading light. He paused there, staring out again into the worid beyond.

Pe Ell stared at him expressionlessly.

Pe Ell stared at him expressionlessly. "Like you said, old man-lucky for you." Dees rose, as bearish as any Koden Morgan might have imag-

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188 The Druid of Shannara ined, sullen and forbidding when he set his face as he did now. He faced Pe Ell as if he meant to have at him. Then he said, "There's all sorts of luck. Some you've got and some you make. Some you carry with you and some you pick up along the way. You're going to need all kinds of it getting in and out of Eldwist. The Koden, he's a thing you wouldn't want to dream about on your worst night. But let me tell you something. After you see what else is down there, what lies beyond Bone Hollow, you won't have to worry about the Koden anymore. Because the dreams you'll have on your worst nights after that will be con- cerned with other things!"

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Pe Ell's shrug was scornful and indifferent. "Dreams are for frightened old men, Homer Dees." Dees glared at him. "Brave words now." "I can see it," Walker Boh said suddenly. His voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it silenced the others instantly and brought them about to face him. The Dark Uncle was staring out across the broken desolation of the Hollow, seemingly unaware that he had spoken.

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Please, don't let me fall asleep! The Hall of Kings did not respond to the urgency of his plea; the statues remained silent, disinterested, and oblivious. The mountain waited.

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/ have to break free! he howled wordlessly. And then he remembered the visions, or more specifically the first of the three that the Grimpond had shown him, the one in which he had stood on a cloud above the others of the little company that had gathered at the Hadeshom in answer to the summons of the shade ofAllanon, the one in which he had said that he would sooner cut off his hand than bring back the Druids and then lifted his arm to show that he had done exactly that.

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He remembered the vision and recognized its truth. He banished the reaction it provoked in horrified disbelief and let his head droop until it was resting on the cavern stone. He cried, feeling the tears run down his cheeks, the sides of his face, stinging his eyes as they mingled with his sweat. His body twisted with the agony of his choices. No! No, he would not! Yet he knew he must. His crying turned to laughter, chilling in its madness as it rolled out of him into the emptiness of the tomb. He waited until it expended itself, the echoes fading into silence, then looked up again. His possibilities had exhausted themselves; his fate was sealed. If he did not break free now, he knew he never would.

I don't think so.

"Even you?" Par was incensed. "For goodness sake. Coil- he wouldn't even speak with you!'' Coil shook his head and held his gaze steady. "The truth is, Par, we never spoke much as it was. You were the one he cared about, because you were the one with the magic." The Scions of Shannara 117 Par looked at him and said nothing. Walker's exact words, he thought. He was just fooling himself when he tried to equate Coil's relationship with their uncle to his own. It had never been the same. He frowned. "There is still the matter of the dreams. Why doesn't he share my curiosity about them? Doesn't he want to know what Allanon has to say?" Coil shrugged. "Maybe he already knows. He seems to know what everyone is thinking most of the time." Par hesitated. He hadn't considered that. Was it possible his uncle had already determined what the Druid would tell them at the Hadeshom? Could he read the mind of a shade, a man three hundred years dead? He shook his head. "No, I don't think so. He would have said something more than he did about the reason for the dreams. He spent all of his time dismissing the matter as one more in- stance when the Ohmsfords would be used by the Druids; he didn't care what the reason was.''

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Elizabeth looked round the restaurant,

Elizabeth looked round the restaurant, which was filling with shoppers, workers, even tourists who had strayed north of the shops on Oxford Street. These were the lines of her life, these were the things that concerned her. Order books and Lucca's salad; Robert's awaited calls and the criticism of Lindsay and her mother. Strikes and economic crisis. Trying not to smoke yet keeping the endless check on her weight. A planned holiday with three or four others in a rented house in Spain; a snatched weekend with Robert in Alsace, or even in Brussels itself. Her clothes, her work, her flat: its small orderly ways maintained by just one weekly visit from a cleaner while she was at work. No elaborate system of cr鑓he, day care, and mother's help as exhaustively discussed by her married friends. London in approaching winter, the wail of traffic through the park, and cold Sunday morning walks that issued into jovial meetings in the pubs of Bayswater that seemed to last an hour too long. And the sense of a larger life inside her, excited and confirmed by pictures she saw in galleries, books she read, but particularly by pictures; something unfulfilled, something needing to be understood. Sometimes she went away on her own to wilder parts of northern England, where she read or walked. She didn't feel self-pity because she could see nothing to feel sorry for; the mundane concerns and preoccupations of her life were interesting to her. She found bed-and-breakfast cottages and small pubs in guidebooks where she sometimes fell into conversation with the owners or with other guests, and sometimes just read by the fire. Once in a village in the Dales a boy of no more than nineteen began talking to her at the bar of the pub. She was wearing her reading glasses and a thick grey-and-white-speckled sweater. He had fair hair and an unconvincing beard. He was at university and had gone off walking in order to do some reading for his studies. He was awkward with her and used set phrases with signalled irony, as though referring to books or films they both knew. He seemed unable to say things without suggesting that they were quotations from someone else. After he had drunk two or three pints of beer he became calmer and told her about his studies in zoology and about his girlfriends at home. He implied a riotous love life. Elizabeth liked his enthusiasm and the pitch of excitement at which he appeared to be living, even in this primitive pub on a Yorkshire hillside with only the landlord's steak-and-kidney pie to come.

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"I hain't no mo' money," breathed Ransie, heavily. "I done paid you all I had." "Otherwise," said the Justice, looking severely over his spectacles, "you air in contempt of co't." "I reckon if you gimme till to-morrow," pleaded the husband, "I mout be able to rake or scrape it up somewhars. I never looked for to be a-payin' no ali- money." "The case air adjourned," said Benaja Widdup, "till to-morrow, when you-all will present yo'selves and obey the order of the co't. Followin' of which the decrees of divo'ce will be delivered." He sat down in the door and began to loosen a shoestring.

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For one time, at least, in the heart of the supernumerary there rose the killing instinct. For one moment he joined the force of combatants -- orally. "What are you waiting for, Sam?" I said in a whisper. "Let him have it now!" Sam gave a melancholy sigh. "You don't understand; but he does," he said. "He knows. Mr. Tenderfoot, there's a rule out here among white men in the Nation that you can't shoot a man when he's with a woman. I never knew it to be broke yet. You can't do it. You've got to get him in a gang of men or by himself. That's why. He knows it, too. We all know. So, that's Mr. Ben Tatum! One of the 'pretty men'! I'll cut him out of the herd before they leave the hotel, and regulate his account!"

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"I'm shy on one word, lady. Jux--jux--put me wise on dat, will yer?" "Juxtaposition--or you may call it propinquity--or, if you like, being rather too near for one maintaining the position of an ideal." The gravel spun from beneath the boy's feet. He stood by the other bench. The man's eyes interrogated him, hungrily. The boy's were shining with the impersonal zeal of the translator. "De lady says dat she's on to de fact dat gals is dead easy when a feller comes spielin' ghost stories and tryin' to make up, and dat's why she won't listen to no soft-soap. She says she caught yer dead to rights, huggin' a bunch o' calico in de hot-house. She side- stepped in to pull some posies and yer was squeezin' de oder gal to beat de band. She says it looked cute, all right all right, but it made her sick. She says yer better git busy, and make a sneak for de train."

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Even Aileen had not been shot at with a pistol. And then Tildy rather hoped that he would not shoot at her, for she was always loyal to Aileen; and she did not want to overshadow her friend. At 4 o'clock on the afternoon of the third day Mr. Seeders came in. There were no customers at the tables. At the back end of the restaurant Tildy was refilling the mustard pots and Aileen was quartering pies. Mr. Seeders walked back to where they stood. Tildy looked up and saw him, gasped, and pressed the mustard spoon against her heart. A red hair-bow was in her hair; she wore Venus's Eighth Avenue badge, the blue bead necklace with the swinging silver symbolic heart. Mr. Seeders was flushed and embarrassed. He plunged one hand into his hip pocket and the other into a fresh pumpkin pie.

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"By the way," he said, "perhaps you would like to know that you have had royalty for a coachman. Old Caesar's grandfather was a king in Congo. Caesar himself has royal ways, as you may have observed."

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As the doctor was moving off I heard Uncle Caesar's voice inside: "Did he get bofe of dem two dollars from you, Mis' Zalea?" "Yes, Caesar," I heard Azalea Adair answer weakly. And then I went in and concluded business negotiations with our contributor. I assumed the responsibility of advancing fifty dollars, putting it as a necessary formality in binding our bargain. And then Uncle Caesar drove me back to the hotel.

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Here ends all of the story as far as I can testify as a witness. The rest must be only bare statements of facts. At about six o'clock I went out for a stroll. Uncle Caesar was at his corner. He threw open the door of his carriage, flourished his duster and began his depressing formula: "Step right in, suh. Fifty cents to anywhere in the city--hack's puffickly clean, suh---- jus' got back from a funeral--" And then he recognized me. I think his eyesight was getting bad. His coat had taken on a few more faded shades of color, the twine strings were more frayed and ragged, the last remaining button-- the button of yellow horn--was gone. A motley descendant of kings was Uncle Caesar!

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Poor Tom. I could scarcely keep from laughing outright to see him struggling against the effects of the opiate. He was distinctly angry, and I didn't blame him. Tom had a Southern temper. His eyes were open now, and they showed a gleam or two of fire. But the drug still clouded his mind and bound his tongue. "C-c-confound you," he stammered, "I'll s-smash you." He tried to rise from the couch. With all his size he was very weak now. I thrust him back with one arm. He lay there glaring like a lion in a trap.

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"That will hold you for a while, you old loony," I said to myself. I got up and lit my pipe, for I was needing a smoke. I walked around a bit, congratulating myself on my brilliant idea. I heard a snore. I looked around. Tom was asleep again. I walked over and punched him on the jaw. He looked at me as pleasant and ungrudging as an idiot. I chewed my pipe and gave it to him hard.

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"Listen to me, Hopkins," I said, in cutting and distinct tones, "you and I have been good friends, but I want you to understand that in the future my doors are closed against any man who acts as much like a scoundrel as you have."

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Tom looked the least bit interested. "What's the matter, Billy?" he muttered, composedly. "Don't your clothes

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fit you?" "If I were in your place," I went on, "which, thank God, I am not, I think I would be afraid to close my eyes. How about that girl you left waiting for you down among those lonesome Southern pines -- the girl that you've forgotten since you came into your confounded money? Oh, I know what I'm talking about. While you were a poor medical student she was good enough for you. But now, since you are a millionaire, it's different. I wonder what she thinks of the performances of that peculiar class of people which she has been taught to worship -- the Southern gentlemen? I'm sorry, Hopkins, that I was forced to speak about these matters, but you've covered it up so well and played your part so nicely that I would have sworn you were above such unmanly tricks"

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"'The relating of anecdotes and humorous occurrences has always seemed to me, Mr. Pescud, to be a particularly agreeable way of promoting and perpetuating amenities between friends. With your permission, I will relate to you a fox-hunting story with which I was personally connected, and which may furnish you some amusement.'

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So he tells it. It takes forty minutes by the watch. Did I laugh? Well, say! When I got my face straight he calls in old Pete, the super-annuated darky, and sends him down to the hotel to bring up my valise. It was Elmcroft for me while I was in the town. "Two evenings later I got a chance to speak a word with Miss Jessie alone on the porch while the colonel was thinking up another story.

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"'It's going to be a fine evening,' says I. "'He's coming,' says she. 'He's going to tell you, this time, the story about the old negro and the green watermelons. It always comes after the one about the Yankees and the game rooster. There was another time,' she goes on, 'that you nearly got left--it was at Pulaski City.'