No, the deaf man did not dream all this. It all happened just as I relate it. Out in that silent blackness a tragedy had been enacted. After a time the deaf man cautiously put his hand out of the window down toward the place where that quick blow had fallen. His reaching fingers slowly crept down past the sill to the wooden post upon which the house was built. There they encountered a soft, warm, sticky smear, which coated the top of the post. The fingers did not dare to close. The horror-stricken, lonely man held his right hand rigid and suffered one of those crises when either philosophy or insanity must come to the aid of the deaf. He determined to keep his mind clear. Finally he became aware that light was coming; off in the east a crimson streak appeared along the sky; the wind was blowing the mists away. Little by little the light gained. The man looked at his hand, and, as he had feared, it showed a red stain. The light grew, and he finally gained courage to look out of the window. The post was covered with blood. There was still visible the mark of a blow of an axe. Just back from the corner was a small house, within which a rooster was crowing—half a dozen hens were on their way out for the day’s wanderings. In the door of a small cook-house in the backyard a fat colored woman was picking a Plymouth Rock chicken. The deaf man glanced once more at the house post and saw on the ground beside it the head of a rooster! It was a thoughtful man who washed his hands and looked about the room. The revolver still lay on the chair where he had placed it; he had evidently put his hand out on the wrong side of the bed. There was the candle and there were the matches—untouched; near at hand was a _box of toothpicks_, half of them broken in pieces, with scratches on the box. Later the deaf man sat out in the gallery, watching the sun rise, his mind busy with strange matters as he waited for breakfast. At length the landlord appeared. “I hope, sir, you rested well. I feared you might be disturbed. We wanted to give you a taste of fried chicken, Georgia style, so the nigger killed one this morning. I hope it did not disturb you, sir.” CHAPTER XVIII “GROUCH” OR GENTLEMAN