It was quite early in the day when the big drops began to patter down on Todd's highly polished knocker. Breakfast had been served and the mail but half opened--containing among other missives a letter from Poe acknowledging one from St. George, in which he wrote that he might soon be in Kennedy Square on his way to Richmond--a piece of news which greatly delighted Harry--and another from Tom Coston, inviting them both to Wesley for the fall shooting, with a postscript to the effect that Willits was “still at the Red Sulphur with the Seymours”--(a piece of news which greatly depressed him)--when Todd answered a thunderous rat-a-tat and immediately thereafter recrossed the hall and opened the dining-room door just wide enough to thrust in first his scared face--then his head--shoulder--arm--and last his hand, on the palm of which lay a small, greasy card bearing the inscription: John Gadgem, Agent. The darky, evidently, was not in a normal condition, for after a moment's nervous hesitation, his eyes over his shoulder as if fearing he was being followed, he squeezed in the rest of his body, closed the door softly behind him, and said in a hoarse whisper to the room at large: “Dat's de same man been here three times yisterday. He asked fust fer Marse Harry, an' when I done tol' him he warn't home--you was 'sleep upstairs, Marse Harry, but I warn't gwineter 'sturb ye--he say he come back dis mawnin'.” “Well, but what does he want?” asked Harry, dropping a lump of sugar in his cup. He had been accumstomed to be annoyed by agents of all kinds who wanted to sell him one thing or another--and so he never allowed any one to get at him unless his business was stated beforehand. He had learned this from his father. “I dun'no, sah.” “What does he look like, Todd?” cried St. George, breaking the seal of another letter. “Wall, he ain't no gemman--he's jus' a pusson I reckon. I done tol' him you warn't out o' bed yit, but he said he'd wait. I got him shet outside, but I can't fool him no mo'. What'll I do now?” “Well, what do you think he wants, then?” Harry burst out impatiently. “Well,” said Todd--“ef I was to tell ye God's truf', I reckon he wants money. He says he's been to de big house--way out to de colonel's, and dey th'owed him out--and now he's gwineter sit down yere till somebody listens to him. It won't do to fool wid him, Marse Harry--I see dat de fus' time he come. He's a he-one--and he's got horns on him for sho'. What'll I do?” Both Harry and St. George roared. “Why bring him in, of course--a 'pusson' with horns on him will be worth seeing.”