“Looky’ heer, Jim,” he said, and he stepped forward and tore off his mask, I’ve got a sorter feelin’ that I want you to see my face an’ know who I am. Sence I heard yore proposal, blame me ef I hain’t got more downright respect fer you than fer any man in this cove, an’ I want to kick myself. You’ve got the sort o’ meat in you that ain’t in me, I’m afeered, an’ I take off my hat to it. I’m a member o’ this gang, an’ have agreed to abide by the vote of the majority, but they ’ll have to git a mighty move on theirselves an’ reverse the’r decision in yore case, ur I ’ll be a deserter. I’d every bit as soon whip my mammy as a body feelin’ like you do.” “That’s the talk.” It was the voice of Alf Carden. All at once he remembered that Jim Trundle, after all that had been said against him, did not owe him a cent, while nearly every other man present had to be dunned systematically once a week. “Boys, let ’im go,” he said; “I’m a-thinkin’ we hain’t fully understood Jim Trundle.” “I hain’t the one that got up this movement,” said Wade Sims, in a tone of defense. Where sentiment was concerned he was out of his element. “Ef you was to let ’im off with a word of advice, it wouldn’t be the fust time we conceded a p’int.” That settled it. With vague mutterings of various sheepish kinds the crowd began to filter away. Some went down the road, and others took paths that led from it. Sid Wombley lingered with Jim a moment. Not being able to turn the matter into a jest, and yet being a thorough man, he felt very awkward. “Go on home, Jim,” he said, gently, his hand on Trundle’s arm. “Your wife ’ll never know a thing about it; they ’ll all keep it quiet, an’ the boys ’ll never bother you ag’in. I--I ’ll see to that.” They shook hands. Trundle started to speak, but simply choked and coughed. Sid turned away. An idea for a joke flitted through his mind, but he discarded it as unworthy of the occasion. Jim went slowly up the hill to his cabin. The moon was now higher up, and as he neared the gate he saw his wife walking about in the entry. She was not alone. A woman sat on the step. It was old Mrs. Samuel, the aunt of Wade Sims, a neighbor, who sometimes dropped in to spend the evening. Was it an exclamation of glad surprise that he heard as he opened the gate, and did his wife stand still and stare at him excitedly, or was the sound the voice of one of the children turning in its sleep? Was her cast of countenance a trick of the moonlight and shadows? The eyes of both women fell as he approached them. “Good evenin’, Jim,” was Mrs. Samuel’s greeting. He nodded and sat down on the steps, his back to his wife. They were all silent. Mrs. Trundle stepped to the water-shelf at one side, and peered at his profile through the shadows, her face full of vague misgivings. Then she sat down in a chair behind him, and studied his back, his neck, the way his shirt lay, her hands clinched on her knees, the fury of a tiger in her eyes.