t he had to sit down and laugh. It
was on seeing Ben Butler rising slowly to his feet and shaking
himself with that long powerful shake he had seen so often after
wallowing. And the funniest thing!--two balls of cotton flew out of
his ears, one hitting Flecker of Tennessee on the nose, the other
Colonel Troup in the eye.

"By Gad, sah," drawled Colonel Troup, "but now, I see. I thought he
cudn't ah been made of flesh an' blood, sah, why damme he's made of
cotton! An' you saved my money, old man, an' that damned rascal's
name by that trick? Well, you kno' what I said, sah, a gentleman an'
his word--but--but--" he turned quickly on the old man--excitedly,
"ah, here--I'll give you the thousand dollars I hedged now ... if
you'll give me back my promise--damned if I don't! Won't do it? No?
Well, it's yo' privilege. I admire yo' charity, it's not of this
world."

And then he remembered seeing Bud sitting in the old cart driving Ben
Butler home and telling everybody what they now knew: "_Great
hoss--G-r-e-a-t hoss!_"

And the old horse shuffled and crow-hopped along, and Jack followed
the Bishop carrying the gold.

And then such a funny thing: Ben Butler, frightened at a mule braying
in his ear, ran away and threw Bud out!

When the old man heard it he sat down and laughed and cried--to his
own disgust--"like a fool, sissy man," he said, "a sissy man that
ain't got no nerve. But, Lord, who'd done that but Ben Butler?"

CHAPTER XXVII

YOU'LL COME BACK A MAN

It was after dark when the old man, pale, and his knees still shaking
with the terrible strain and excitement of it all, reached his cabin
on the mountain. The cheers of the grand-stand still echoed in his
ears, and, shut his eyes as he would, he still saw Ben Butler,
stretched out on the track struggling for the little breath that was
in him.

Jack Bracken walked in behind the old man carrying a silken sack
which sagged and looked heavy.

The grandfather caught up Shiloh first and kissed her. Then he sat
down with the frail form in his arms and looked earnestly at her with
his deep piercing eyes.

"Where's the ole hoss," began his wife, her eyes beginning to snap.
"You've traded him off an' I'll bet you got soaked, Hillard Watts--I
can tell it by that pesky, sheepish look in yo' eyes. You never cu'd
trade horses an' I've allers warned you not to trade the ole roan."

"Wal, yes," said the Bishop. "I've traded him for this--" and his
voice grew husk