owed by age, and wise by scores of years of
experience.

Old Zack now whispered, looking Bob squarely in the eyes:

"Whar you-all gwine, Marse Bob?"

"Hunting, Uncle Zack."

"Huntin'!" he gave a snort of impatience. "Dat ain' no shot-gun! Hit's
man huntin' you'se all arter, dat's what! Dar's been funny doin's 'round
heah dis mawnin', 'caze dat gemmen wid de long haih what come las' night
done skin out 'foh sun-up, ridin' dat onery white cradle of his'n what
he calls a hawse, an' totin' de rustiest, wickedest ole gun I ever seen.
He say _he's_ gwine huntin', too; arter squir'ls, he say, an' I'se fool
'nuff to believe him. Is a wah done broke out, Marse Bob?"

"I expect he really did go after squirrels, Uncle Zack, sure enough I
do. But the Colonel and I won't be long, and it's nothing serious, so
you just keep mum about it. Whatever you do, don't let Miss Liz know."

"She's de ve'y fu'st one I'se gwine tell, lest I git mah brains better
sot on dis heah fracas!" He gave a low chuckle, adding: "Lor', chile,
Miss Liz ain' gwine know nuthin'. Ole Zack kin keep mum an' fool de
smartes' of 'em! Didn' I fetch Marse John's djeulin' pistols one Sunday
mawnin' right under de Bible layin' on de cushion we cyarried to chu'ch
fer ole Miss to kneel on? An' didn' we-all walk plumb up de aisle, an'
fix her nice an' easy in her pew, an' den slip out an' go down on de
crick whar de gemmens wuz waitin', an' shoot dat young Mister Green in
de lung? 'Deed we did," he chuckled again, scratching his head as though
the reminiscence were ticklesome--then looked up with a sly smile:
"Whilst we wuz a-drivin' home dat day, ole Miss she say: 'You wuz late,
son,' she say; an' I heah him say: 'Yes mam, a gemmen sont word he'd lak
to see me,' he say. Den ole Miss ax: 'Did you find 'im, son?' 'Yes mam,'
Marse John say, 'I foun' 'im, all right.' Ole Miss pat de back of his
han', croonin' in dat soft voice of her'n: 'You'se a great comfo't, an'
always so 'siderate of others!' At dat, I jest bust plumb out
a-laughin', but turned it to sich a wicked-soundin' chokin' spell dat
dey's 'bleeged to lean over an' beat mah back; an' while Marse John wuz
a-puttin' on de licks, an' mighty nigh killin' me, he whisper: 'You
black rascal, ef you don' behave I'll shoot you nex' Sunday!' Oh, dem
wuz days what wuz days, Marse Bob; dey wuz fer a fac'! Ain' you-all
gwine fight no one dis mawnin'?"

"You bloodthirsty old villain," Bob laughed. "Don't you know that
ge