Berrien Cozart walked out on the veranda, and presently he was joined by his father. “My son,” said the old gentleman, “you will need money for your traveling expenses. Here is a check on our Augusta factor; you can have it cashed in Madison. I want you to return to college, make all proper apologies, and redeem yourself.” “Thank you, sir,” said Berrien, taking the check and stuffing it into his pocket. His father turned to go indoors, hesitated a moment, and looked at Berrien, who was drumming idly on one of the pillars. Then the old gentleman sighed and went in. Shortly thereafter Berrien Cozart and Balaam were journeying away from Billville in the conveyance that had brought them there. On the high hill beyond the “town branch” Balaam leaned out of the hack and looked back at Billville. The town appeared insignificant enough; but the setting sun imparted a rosy glow to the roof of the yellow court-house and to the spire of the old church. Observing the purpose of the negro, Mr. Cozart smiled cynically and flipped the hot ashes of his cigar into Balaam’s ear. “As you are telling the town good-by,” said the young man, “I’ll help you to bow.” “Yasser!” said Balaam, shaking the ashes from his ear; “I was des a-lookin’ back at de place. Dat sun shine red, mon, an’ de jail look like she de bigges’ house dar. She stan’ out mo’ bigger dan w’at de chu’ch do.” It may be that this statement made no impression on Berrien, but he leaned back in his seat and for miles chewed the end of his cigar in silence. It is not the purpose of this chronicle to follow him through all his adventures and escapades. As he rode away from Billville on that memorable day he seemed to realize that his career had just begun. It was a career to which he had served a long and faithful apprenticeship, and he pursued it to the end. From Madison he went to Atlanta, where for months he was a familiar, albeit a striking figure. There were few games of chance in which he was not an adept. No conjurer was so adroit with the cards or the dice; he handled these emblems of fate and disaster as an artist handles his tools. And luck chose him as her favorite; he prospered to such a degree that he grew reckless and careless. Whereupon one fine day luck turned her back on him, and he paraded on fine afternoons in front of Lloyd’s Hotel a penniless man. He had borrowed and lost until he could borrow no longer. Balaam, who was familiar with the situation, was not surprised to learn that his master had made up his mind to sell him. “Well, suh,” said Balaam, brushing his master’s coat carefully,“you kin sell me, but de man dat buys Balaam will git a mighty bad bargain.” “What do you mean?” exclaimed Berrien. “You kin sell me, suh, but I ain’t gwine stay wid um.” “You can’t help yourself,” said the master. “I got legs, Marse Berry. You know dat yo’se’f.” “Your legs will do you no good. You’ll be caught if you go back home.”