One rainy afternoon, Gooding drove up to the store of his old friend, about half an hour earlier than he usually left for home. Jenkins was standing in the door. “As it is raining, I thought I would call round for you,” he said, as he drew up his horse. “Very much obliged to you, indeed,” returned Jenkins, quite well pleased. “Stop a moment until I lock up my desk, and then I will be with you.” In a minute or two Jenkins came out, and stepped lightly into the wagon. “It is kind in you, really, to call for me,” he said, as the wagon moved briskly away. “I was just thinking that I should have to get a carriage.” “It is no trouble to me at all,” returned Gooding, “and if it were, the pleasure of doing a friend a kindness would fully repay it.” “You smell strong of whisky here,” said Jenkins, after they had ridden a little way, turning his eyes toward the back part of the wagon as he spoke. “What have you here?” “An empty whisky hogshead. This rain put me in mind of doing what my wife has been teasing me to do for the last six months—get her a rain barrel. I tried to get an old oil cask, but couldn’t find one. They make the best rain barrels. Just burn them out with a flash of good dry shavings, and they are clear from all oily impurities, and tight as a drum.” “Indeed! I never thought that. I must look out for one, for our old rain hogshead is about tumbling to pieces.” From rain barrels the conversation turned upon business, and at length Gooding brought up the old story, and urged the settlement of his claim as a matter of charity. “You don’t know how much I need it,” he said. “Necessity alone compels me to press the claim upon your attention.” “It is hard, I know, and I am very sorry for you,” Jenkins replied. “Next week I will certainly pay you fifty dollars.” “I shall be very thankful. How soon after do you think you will be able to let me have the balance of the three hundred due me? Say as early as possible.” “Within three months, at least, I hope,” replied Jenkins. “Harry! Do you hear that?” said Gooding, turning his head toward the back part of the wagon, and speaking in a quick elated manner. “Oh, aye!” came ringing from the bung-hole of the whisky hogshead. “Who the dickens is that?” exclaimed Jenkins, turning quickly round. “No one,” replied Gooding, with a quiet smile, “but my clerk, Harry Williams.” “Where?” “Here,” replied the individual named, pushing himself up through the loose head of the upright hogshead, and looking into the face of the discomfited Jenkins, with a broad smile of satisfaction upon his always humorous phiz. “Whoa, Charley,” said Gooding, at this moment reigning up his horse before the house of Jenkins. The latter stepped out, with his eyes upon the ground, and stood with his hand upon the wagon in thought for some moments; then looking up, he said, while the humor of the whole thing pressed itself so fully upon him, that he could not help smiling.