Later that afternoon there was a meeting between the two. “Been waitin’ all mawnin’ for you, Bulldog,” was the convict captain’s greeting. “Just you run along and get your work clothes and then you can go over and clean up my quarters.” The regular routine of the check-in was usually dispensed with in Bulldog’s case, as it was to-day. Once safe in the convict camp, he caused no trouble. He did the work of seven ordinary men and had withal the stolid patience of a work horse. Only when he was at liberty was Bulldog dangerous, like a colt turned out to grass which suddenly remembers that he can kick. Captain Jim had been busy for several minutes with the other prisoners before he realized that Bulldog still stood back of him, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. He recalled that the same thing had happened on one other occasion and grinned inwardly. He half turned. “Bulldog, you go over and tell old Henry,” Cap’n Jim said, “to give you something to eat.” “Yas-suh, Cap’n Jim,” Bulldog said with alacrity, his eyes brightening and his lower lip hanging expectantly at the thought of food. “Dat’s what Ah was hopin’ yo’ was goin’ to say, Cap’n Jim. Ah ain’t eat since las’ night.” The sheepish grin spread over his face. “Seems lak Ah cain’t relish de bacon and grits what dey gives up to dat city jail. Dey don’t know how to feed a nigger lak yo’ does, Cap’n Jim.” “So that’s why you came back so soon, is it?” the convict captain said with a laugh. “No, suh,” Bulldog answered soberly, his brows knit and his lips protruding. “Ah didn’ come back fer no perticular reason, Cap’n Jim. Now Ah stops and figgers it out, Ah guess it jus’ happen.” His face lit up with an idea as he asked with all the wonder of a small boy, “Cap’n Jim, you-all didn’ put no sign on me to make me come back?” “If you don’t get out of here quick I’ll put a sign on you you won’t forget,” the captain exploded. “Yas-suh,” Bulldog called back to him over his shoulder, being already half a dozen paces on his way. Ten minutes later, garbed in his chain-gang work clothes, with a chain dangling from his waist, Bulldog poked his head through the open window of the cook shanty. “Ev’nin’, Uncle Henry,” he said in a mellifluous tone to a gray-haired Negro in cap and apron who was ladling the contents of a huge pot set at the back of the big square stove. Uncle Henry looked up, his face crinkled with smiles that seemed to close his eyes until they were shiny, laughing dots. “Dat you-all, Bulldog? Sho’ nuff I jes’ dis minute ’cided you done dis’point Cap’n Jim an’ slumped a fresh ham bone an’ two pounds ob meat on it into dat soup. But, Bulldog, boy, for you I fishes it out.” “Yas-suh, Uncle Henry, Ah knowed yo’ ain’t goin’ to see Bulldog starve. Mebbe yo’ has a handful ob dem yaller sweet yams.” Bulldog’s mouth fairly dripped.