a copy of this book," he said. "Walked four miles
to get it, and when I returned, some rascal had greased the foot-log and
I slipped off into the creek. Oh, it's very funny now, but it wasn't
then; had to fight to keep from losing the book and came within one of
drowning. Well, I must go. Ma'am, I'm a thousand times obliged to you
for this store-house of faith, and I assure you that I'll take the best
of care that it shall come back to you in good condition. By the way,
John, is your office locked? I'll step out there and get that paper."

"Yes, it's locked. I'll go with you."

"Oh, never mind. Let me have the key."

"But you can't find the paper."

"Well, let it go; I can get it some other time."

The Major, slyly shaking, walked with him to the end of the porch.
"You've played thunder," the old fellow whispered. "I didn't think it of
you. I gad, every chance you get you hoist me on your hip and slam the
life out of me. Sick as a dog, too. Again, ma'am," he added, turning
about, "let me thank you for this book. And Major," he said aloud, and
"damn you," he breathed, "I hope to see you over my way soon."

He swore at his horse as he mounted, and throwing back a look of
reproach, he jogged off down the road. But he had not proceeded more
than a mile when a boy, urging a galloping horse, overtook him and gave
him a bundle; and therein he found a bottle of whisky, with these words
written in red ink and pasted on the glass: "You are an old fool."

CHAPTER XII.

All day the clouds had been gathering, hanging low over the fields. At
evening came a downpour of rain, and at night a fitful wind was
blowing--one moment of silence and then a throb of rain at the windows.
In his office the Major sat, looking over the affairs of his estate. It
was noted that he preferred a stormy night thus to apply himself; the
harshness of figures, the unbending stubbornness of a date, in his mind
seemed to find a unity with the sharp whistle of the wind and the lashes
of rain on the moss-covered roof. Before him, on yellowing paper, was
old Gid's name, and at it he slowly shook his head, for fretfully he
nursed the consciousness of having for years been the dupe of that man's
humorous rascality. The plantation was productive, the old fellow had
gathered many a fine crop, and for his failure to pay rent there could
be no excuse, except the apologies devised by his own trickish
invention. Year after year, in his appeals for furthe