t that fellow Fernand? I don't remember
having seen him on your Louisiana plantation."

"I picked him up in Natchitoches while we were organising. You know I
lost my old major-domo last fall by the yellow fever. It took him off
while we were down in New Orleans. Fernand, however, is his superior in
every sense; can keep plantation accounts, wait at table, drive a
carriage, or help in a hunt. He's a fellow of wonderful versatility; in
short, a genius. And what is rare in such a combination of talents, he
is devoted to his duties--a very slave to them."

"What breed may your admirable Crichton be?" asks another of the guests,
adding: "He looks a cross between Spaniard and Indian."

"Just what he is," answers the young planter; "at least says so. By his
own account his father was a Spaniard, or rather a Mexican, and his
mother an Indian of the Seminole tribe. His real name is Fernandez; but
for convenience I've dropped the final syllable."

"It's a bad sort of mixture, that between Spaniard and Seminole, and not
improved by the Spaniard being a Mexican," remarks he who made the
inquiry.

"I don't like his looks," observes a third speaker.

Then all around the table wait to hear what Wharton, the young surgeon,
has to say. For it is evident, from his way of introducing the subject,
he either knows or suspects something prejudicial to the character of
the major-domo. Instead of going on to explain, he puts a second
interrogatory--

"May I ask, M. Dupre, whether you had any character with him?"

"No, indeed," admits the master. "He came to me just before we left
Natchitoches asking for an engagement. He professed to know all about
Texas, and offered to act as a guide. As I had engaged guides, I didn't
want him for that when he said any other place would do. Seeing him to
be a smart sort of fellow, which he certainly has proved, I engaged him
to look after my baggage. Since, I've found him useful in other ways,
and have given him full charge of everything--even to entrusting him
with the care of my modest money chest."

"In doing that," rejoins the surgeon, "I should say you've acted
somewhat imprudently. Excuse me, M. Dupre, for making the observation."

"Oh, certainly," is the planter's frank reply. "But why do you say so,
Mr Wharton? Have you any reason to suspect his honesty?"

"I have; more than one."

"Indeed! Let us hear them all."

"Well; in the first place I don't like the look of the