He shut the door behind us and lighted a lamp agin. And we looked each other over. He was a scrawny little feller, with little gray eyes set near together, and some sandy-complected whiskers on his chin. I told him about Bud, and what his fix was. “Damn it--oh, damn it all,” he says, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “I don't see how on _airth_ I kin do it. My wife's jest had a baby. Do yo' hear that?” And I did hear a sound like kittens mewing, somewheres up stairs. Beauregard, he grinned and rubbed his nose some more, and looked at me like he thought that mewing noise was the smartest sound that ever was made. “Boy,” he says, grinning, “bo'n five hours ago. I've done named him Burley--after the tobaccer association, yo' know. Yes, _sir_, Burley Peoples is his name--and he shore kin squall, the derned little cuss!” “Yes,” I says, “you better stay with Burley. Lend me a rig of some sort and I'll take Bud home.” So we went out to Beauregard's stable with a lantern and hitched up one of his hosses to a light road wagon. He went into the house and come back agin with a mattress fur Bud to lie on, and a part of a bottle of whiskey. And I drove back to that lumber pile. I guess I nearly killed Bud getting him into there. But he wasn't bleeding much from his hip--it was his arm was giving him fits. We went slow, and the dawn broke with us four miles out of town. It was broad daylight, and early morning noises stirring everywheres, when we drove up in front of an old farmhouse, with big brick chimbleys built on the outside of it, a couple of miles farther on. CHAPTER XIV As I drove into the yard, a bare-headed old nigger with a game leg throwed down an armful of wood he was gathering and went limping up to the veranda as fast as he could. He opened the door and bawled out, pointing to us, before he had it fairly open: “O Marse _Will_yum! O Miss _Lucy_! Dey've brung him home! _Dar_ he!” [Illustration: 0217] A little, bright, black-eyed old lady like a wren comes running out of the house, and chirps: “O Bud--O my honey boy! Is he dead?” “I reckon not, Miss Lucy,” says Bud raising himself up on the mattress as she runs up to the wagon, and trying to act like everything was all a joke. She was jest high enough to kiss him over the edge of the wagon box. A worried-looking old gentleman come out the door, seen Bud and his mother kissing each other, and then says to the old nigger man: “George, yo' old fool, what do yo' mean by shouting out like that?” “Marse Willyum--” begins George, explaining. “Shut up,” says the old gentleman, very quiet. “Take the bay mare and go for Doctor Po'ter.” Then he comes to the wagon and says: “So they got yo', Bud? Yo' _would_ go nightriding like a rowdy and a thug! Are yo' much hurt?” He said it easy and gentle, more than mad. But Bud, he flushed up, pale as he was, and didn't answer his dad direct. He turned to his mother and said: