"Fur more'n six years he's been right here constant, 'ceptin' when he'd go off for a while seein' to 'is business an' sich. Thet's 'is name ther' wher'yer a readin' in the book. I can't read no writin', but I know 'at hit's 'is name, though; Colonel John M. Reynolds, haint hit?" Moreton made no reply; he was looking at the name in a musing way, his brows slightly contracted. Presently he turned to White and said: "Where is Mr. Reynolds?" "The Colonel he went out a huntin' this mornin' an' he haint come back yet. He'll be in 'fore long, a drippin' like a ash-hopper an' es wet es a swamp," answered White. Then, after a moment's pause he looked quizzically at Moreton and added: "Ye don't hev any 'quaintance of the Colonel, hev ye?" "I am not sure. The name is that of a friend of mine whom I have not seen for years. Is he tall and dark with deep gray eyes and--" "Yes, sir, he air that kind of a man, an' he air fine-lookin' an' handsome an' hes ben all over ever' wher' an' knows all about most ever' thing an' ever' body. Yes, sir, that air Colonel he air a outdacious fine man." "Yes, yes, he is, no doubt," Moreton responded absently, really quite unaware of what he was saying. His memory was busy with things of the past. Was it possible that he had thus again accidentally stumbled upon Reynolds? Of all the men he ever had met he liked Reynolds best. The very name had its fascination, just as something in the man himself had its mysterious charm, disconnected from any social, moral or intellectual attractiveness. "Where did Mr. Reynolds come from when he came here?" he demanded, coming suddenly and wholly back to himself and looking at White who had begun to move away. "The Colonel he kem f'm--kem f'm--f'm--I couldn't say e'zactly wher' the Colonel kem f'm; but som'ers in furren parts, I'm sartaing of thet." "Six years ago, I think you told me." "Yes, a leetle the rise of six. The Colonel he kem yer in Septem'er." "Sings well, the Colonel, does he?" "Sing! dern, but ye orter heer 'im, strenger. He ken beat a meth'dis' nigger all to striffins. He air a singer for ter mek yer hair stan', the Colonel air." "Plays superbly on the guitar?" "On the git-tar? Yer may say he does, strenger. When he plays onto the git-tar, I calls hit a pickin' onto the git ther', and the Colonel he ken git ther' with the bes' chunes 'at ever split the wind, dead sartaing." White's sallow face betrayed, as he finished speaking, a perfect faith in the legitimacy of his humor, and Moreton felt bound to laugh. At this point the girl came shyly to the door and said: "Pap, dinner air ready."