Around a curving cornfield we went, and through a meadow which Buck said was a “nigh cut.” From the limb of a tree that we passed hung a piece of wire with an iron ring swinging at its upturned end. A little farther was another tree and another ring, and farther on another and another. “For heaven's sake, Buck, what are these things?” “Mart's a-gittin' ready fer a tourneyment.” “A what?” “That's whut Mart calls hit. He was over to the Gap last Fourth o' July, an' he says fellers over thar fix up like Kuklux and go a-chargin' on hosses and takin' off them rings with a ash-stick--'spear,' Mart calls hit. He come back an' he says he's a-goin' to win that ar tourneyment next Fourth o' July. He's got the best hoss up this river, and on Sundays him an' Dave Branham goes a-chargin' along here a-picking off these rings jus' a-flyin'; an' Mart can do hit, I'm tellin' ye. Dave's mighty good hisself, but he ain't nowhar 'longside o' Mart.” This was strange. I had told the Blight about our Fourth of July, and how on the Virginia side the ancient custom of the tournament still survived. It was on the last Fourth of July that she had meant to come to the Gap. Truly civilization was spreading throughout the hills. “Who's Mart?” “Mart's my brother,” said little Buck. “He was over to the Gap not long ago, an' he come back mad as hops--” He stopped suddenly, and in such a way that I turned my head, knowing that caution had caught Buck. “What about?” “Oh, nothin',” said Buck carelessly; “only he's been quar ever since. My sisters says he's got a gal over thar, an' he's a-pickin' off these rings more'n ever now. He's going to win or bust a belly-band.” “Well, who's Dave Branham?” Buck grinned. “You jes axe my sister Mollie. Thar she is.” Before us was a white-framed house of logs in the porch of which stood two stalwart, good-looking girls. Could we stay all night? We could--there was no hesitation--and straight in we rode. “Where's your father?” Both girls giggled, and one said, with frank unembarrassment: “Pap's tight!” That did not look promising, but we had to stay just the same. Buck helped me to unhitch the mules, helped me also to catch minnows, and in half an hour we started down the river to try fishing before dark came. Buck trotted along. “Have you got a wagon, Buck?” “What fer?” “To bring the fish back.” Buck was not to be caught napping. “We got that sled thar, but hit won't be big enough,” he said gravely. “An' our two-hoss wagon's out in the cornfield. We'll have to string the fish, leave 'em in the river and go fer 'em in the mornin'.” “All right, Buck.” The Blight was greatly amused at Buck. Two hundred yards down the road stood his sisters over the figure of a man outstretched in the road. Unashamed, they smiled at us. The man in the road was “pap”--tight--and they were trying to get him home. We cast into a dark pool farther down and fished most patiently; not a bite--not a nibble. “Are there any fish in here, Buck?”