Next morning bright and early he came to release his brother expert. The windows still were shuttered, the doors still fastened tight; but the house was empty. Also it was in a damaged state. At one side the thin clapboards were burst through, as though a blunt projectile traveling at great speed had struck them with terrific force from within. The shattered ends of planking stood forth, encircling the jagged aperture in a sort of sunburst effect. Upon a splintered tip of one of the boards was a wisp of kinky wool. Upon a paling of the yard fence was a rag, evidently ripped from a shirt sleeve. Otherwise there were no signs of George. He was utterly gone, with only that yawning orifice in the cottage wall to give a clue as to the manner of his departure. Mr. Ferguson waited all through the day for the missing one to turn up. On the second day the white man gave the alarm. A search party was organized—men on horseback with dogs. Bloodhounds took the trail. They followed it from early morning until late that evening. Just before dusk, in a swamp thirty miles away the lead-dog bayed exultantly. The pursuing posse, with Ferguson in the lead, spurred forward. Here came the missing George. His face was set toward home. It was a face streaked with dust and dried sweat, torn by briers, wet, drawn, gray with fatigue. His garments were in shreds; his hat was gone. His weary legs tottered under him as he dragged one sore foot after the other. Yet in the heart of Mr. Ferguson indignation was stronger than compassion. He rode up alongside the spent and wavering pedestrian. “Well, by heck, you certainly are the most unreliable nigger in this State!” he said. “Here night before last I make a contract with you for a certain job. I leave you in one of my houses. I come there the next morning and not only are you gone without leaving any word, but one side of my house is busted out. And then I have to leave my business to come hunting for you. And after riding all over the country I find you here, thirty miles from home, in a swamp. Where in thunder have you been since I last saw you, forty-eight hours ago?” “Boss,” said George, “I’ve been comin’ back.” § 87 Natural Proof When the weather gets unseasonably warm I deem the time suitable for reviving a story which I first heard at the Republican National Convention in Chicago in 1920. As may be recalled by those who attended that convention, the entire country from coast to coast sweltered through the week under a blanket of terrific heat. A delegate from California, in a half fluid state, fell off of a transcontinental train. A Chicago friend met him at the station. “Say, old man,” said the friend when greetings had been exchanged, “is it as hot out West as it is here on the lake?”