dney and Katrina
and Mrs. Carroll clapped their hands, and the Doctor, folding in his
handkerchief the somewhat dubious treasure, rode over to the apple-tree
and presented it to his wife.

During the confusion attendant upon the harnessing of horses and mules,
Bob, restoring 'Possum's saddle to the mule from which he had borrowed
it, heard Pink Pressley's voice on the other side of the big oak by
which he was working.

"Howdy, Mr. Baron," he was saying.

"How_dee_," responded von Rittenheim, with an accent that made Bob
throw back his head and laugh silently. "You had bad fortune with your
horse this afternoon."

"Correct. Damn pore horse. Some day Ah'll have a good horse o' mah own,
not a ole borrowed plug. Ah'm goin' to be rich some day. You-all know
how, eh? Say,"--he was wagging his head solemnly to and fro,
disgustingly near von Rittenheim's face,--"Ah reckon you'd like to go
into business with me now ye made a start at hit."

Bob remained behind his shield, hoping that Pressley would go away
before von Rittenheim had the mortification of seeing him.

"Ah reckon you-all need money mahty bad," drawled the drunken voice. "A
feller always does when he wants to get married, 'n hit's clear what
yo' after with Miss Sydney."

Like bolts from heaven, two blows fell upon him simultaneously, and von
Rittenheim and Bob faced each other over his fallen body.

"Leave him alone," said Bob, hoarsely. "He'll sleep it off."

Then he strolled over to his father.

"Dad, I suspect you'd better take a look at Pink Pressley under the big
oak-tree. I've just given him a biff in the solar plexus, or mighty
near it."

XVI

On the Bridge

All through July the growing heat of summer forced the people of the
low country up into the mountains in search of an altitude where
humidity is not a factor in the sum total of suffering. Every evening's
six o'clock train brought families of travellers, glad to escape from
the steaming heat of Charleston or Savannah, or ready to run the risk
of the fever-killing frost coming too late for the beginning of the New
Orleans schools. They emerged dishevelled and weary from the hot cars.
The elders counted children, nurses, and luggage; the children sat down
at once upon the ground and took off their shoes and stockings.

By the first of August the whole Asheville plateau was transformed from
its winter state.

The large towns were filled with pretty, pale girls, gay in muslins and