e fence-rail
over the great, writhing figure on the ground. And he was slobbering. I
recall that this fact gave a twinge to something in my memory.

"Come on, Hump Gibson," he cried, "come on!"--at which the crowd went
wild with pure joy. Witticisms flew.

"Thought ye was goin' to eat 'im up, Hump?" said a friend.

"Ye ain't hed yer meal yet, Hump," reminded another.

Mr. Hump Gibson arose slowly out of the dust, yet he did not stand
straight.

"Come on, come on!" cried the young lawyer-fellow, and he thrust the
point of the rail within a foot of Mr. Gibson's stomach.

"Come on, Hump!" howled the crowd, but Mr. Gibson stood irresolute. He
lacked the supreme test of courage which was demanded on this occasion.
Then he turned and walked away very slowly, as though his pace might
mitigate in some degree the shame of his retreat. The young man flung
away the fence-rail, and, thrusting aside the overzealous among his
admirers, he strode past me into the tavern, his anger still hot.

"Hooray fer Jackson!" they shouted. "Hooray fer Andy Jackson!"

Andy Jackson! Then I knew. Then I remembered a slim, wild, sandy-haired
boy digging his toes in the red mud long ago at the Waxhaws Settlement.
And I recalled with a smile my own fierce struggle at the schoolhouse
with the same boy, and how his slobbering had been my salvation. I
turned and went in after him with the landlord, who was rubbing his hands
with glee.

"I reckon Hump won't come crowin' round heah any more co't days, Mr.
Jackson," said our host.

But Mr. Jackson swept the room with his eyes and then glared at the
landlord so that he gave back.

"Where's my man?" he demanded.

"Your man, Mr. Jackson?" stammered the host.

"Great Jehovah!" cried Mr. Jackson, "I believe he's afraid to race. He
had a horse that could show heels to my Nancy, did he? And he's gone,
you say?"

A light seemed to dawn on the landlord's countenance.

"God bless ye, Mr. Jackson!" he cried, "ye don't mean that young
daredevil that was with Sevier?"

"With Sevier?" says Jackson.

"Ay," says the landlord; "he's been a-fightin with Sevier all summer, and
I reckon he ain't afeard of nothin' any more than you. Wait--his name
was Temple--Nick Temple, they called him."

"Nick Temple!" I cried, starting forward.

"Where's he gone?" said Mr. Jackson. "He was going to bet me a six-forty
he has at Nashboro that his horse could beat mine on the Greasy Cove
track. Where's he gone?"

"Gon