The old man chewed ruminatingly, and spat at a "devil's-horse" which sat alertly atop of a shrub near by. "Y' see," he continued, "times is gittin' wuss and wuss; banks failin' everywhar, and nawthin' wuth a cent on th' shillin', 'cept Gov'ment bonds. Corn aint wuth nawthin; farmers is feedin' their wheat to th' hogs, and cotton ye could n't give away." Again there was a silence, and again the "devil's-horse" narrowly escaped a deluge. "By the way, whar 've ye got them Gov'ment bonds o' yourn?" Checkers came out of his reverie at the question. "Mr. Bradley 's got them put away in the safe for me at the store," he answered. "Mm-hmm!" mused the old man; "I was kinder wonderin' whether ye ever give any on 'em away, like ye done th' place here;" and he glanced at Checkers cunningly out of the corner of his eye. "I never gave them away," said Checkers, drearily, "because there was no occasion for it. What we had we owned together and shared in common, and it makes little difference whether it was in my name or--or any one else's." "Yes; but it does. It makes a difference in the eye o' the law." "Well, the law can leave it in its eye, or get it out, if it worries it any." The old man grinned sardonically on the side of his face away from Checkers. He had never liked our little friend from the time when Checkers had caused him to fall over a rocking-chair in the parlor the night that he and Pert became engaged; and Checkers had fostered this dislike by snubbing and belittling him whenever an opportunity occurred. His entire make-up of sneaking, petty selfishness and greed was abhorrent to one of Checkers' open, generous nature, and it was only for Pert's sake that he had ever consented to have the old man about or notice him at all. "Wal," said Mr. Barlow, musingly, "that 's one thing I kin see stickin' out; you ain't no kind o' hand to run a place like this--ye 're too tarnal shif'less. Somebody 's got to look after things. Now, my place down below 's all right for raisin' cotton and sich, but it 's onhealthy, mighty. The doctor says it 's livin' down thar gives my wife chills and ager. So, take it all 'round, and bein' 's ye 're fixed so nice up here, but lonesome-like by yerself, I guess me an' wife 'll close up the ole house an' move up here to live." "Guess again." "No; I 'low I guessed it right fust time," grinned the old man. "What 's the good in runnin' two houses when we kin all live together in one jist ez well? Wife kin have the parlor bedroom all t' herself, and you kin have the front or back room upstairs, either you like--I ain't pertic'lar on that pint--" "Now, see here," interrupted Checkers, jumping up with an impatient gesture, "I 've listened to enough of this bloody nonsense. I 'll live here by myself and run this place to suit myself. Now, when you go out, close the gate--I 'm tired of talking, and I want to be left alone."