d before reaching
the house and followed slowly and cautiously, stopping whenever the old
fellow turned to look back. At the corner of a field Gid halted and put
down his bag, and the dog turned about, pretending to be on his way
home. In the field was a pecan tree, tall and graceful. Year after year
had the old man tended it, and to him it was more than a tree, it was a
friend. Upon the fence he climbed, sitting for a moment on the top rail
to look about him; to the tree he went, and putting his arms about it,
pressed his wrinkled cheek against its bark. He turned away, climbed the
fence, took up his bag and resumed his journey toward the steamboat
landing. Far behind, on a rise in the road, the dog sat, watching him.
The old man turned a bend in the road, and the dog, running until his
master was again in sight, sat down to gaze after him. Far ahead was the
charred skeleton of a gin house, burned by marauders many years ago, and
here he was to turn into the road that led to the landing. He looked up
as he drew near and saw a horse standing beside the road; and then from
behind the black ruin stepped a man--the Major.

"Gid," he said, coming forward, "I believe we're going to have more
rain."

The old man dropped his bag, and the dog far down the road turned back.
"Wind's from the northwest, Gid." He put his hand on the old fellow's
shoulder.

"Don't touch me, John; let me go."

"Why, I can't let you go. Look here, old man, you have stood by me more
than once--you stood when other men ran away--and you are more to me
than money is."

"Let me go, John. I am an old liar and an old hypercrite. My pocket was
not picked--I lost the money gambling. Let me go; I am a scoundrel."

He stooped to take up his bag, but the Major seized it. "I'll carry it
for you," he said. "Too heavy for as old a man as you are. Come on back
and raise another crop."

"I haven't a thing to go on, John. Can't even get feed for the mules.
Give me the satchel."

"You shall have all the feed you want."

"But your wife----"

"I will tell her that the debt is paid."

"John, your gospel would take the taint out of a thief on a cross. And I
was never so much of a man as you now make me, and, I gad, I'm going to
be worthy of your friendship. Let me remind you of something: That old
uncle of mine in Kentucky will leave me his money. It's cold-blooded to
say it, but I understand that he can't live but a short time. I am his
only relative, and h