Uncle Zach, with large authority, had given the opening order, and at the side tables a pleasing clatter of china had arisen, when Squire Futrell put down his glass and rose, with a startled look on his face. “Looky here, boys!” he exclaimed. “This won't never do! Did you fellers know there wus thirteen at the table?” Sure enough, there were! It has been claimed--perhaps not without colour of plausibility--that Southerners are more superstitious than Northerners. Assuredly the Southerners of a generation that is almost gone now uniformly nursed their private beliefs in charms, omens, spells, hoodoos and portents. As babies many of them were nursed, as boys all of them were played with, by members of the most superstitious race--next to actors--on the face of creation. An actor of Ethiopian descent should by rights be the most superstitious creature that breathes the air of this planet, and doubtlessly is. No one laughed at Squire Futrell's alarm over his discovery. Possibly excusing Father Minor, it is probable that all present shared it with him. As for Uncle Zach Mathews and his two assistants, they froze with horror where they had halted, their loaded trays poised on their arms. But they did not freeze absolutely solid--they quivered slightly. “Law-zee!” gasped Uncle Zach, with his eyeballs rolling. “Dinner can't go no fur'der twell we gits somebody else in or meks somebody leave and go 'way--dat's sartain shore! Whee! We kin all thank Our Maker dat dey ain't been nary bite et yit.” “Amen to dat, Brer Zach!” muttered Ike shakily; and dumbly Tobe Emery nodded, stricken beyond power of speech by the nearness of a barely averted catastrophe fraught with disaster, if not with death itself. Involuntarily Judge Priest had shoved his chair back; most of the others had done the same thing. He got on his feet with alacrity. “Boys,” he said, “the squire is right--there's thirteen of us. Now whut d'ye reckin we're goin' to do 'bout that?” The natural suggestion would be that they send at once for another person. Three or four offered it together, their voices rising in a babble. Names of individuals who would make congenial table mates were heard. Among others, Sergeant Jimmy Bagby was spoken of; likewise Colonel Cope and Captain Woodward. But Judge Priest shook his head. “I can't agree with you-all,” he set forth. “By the time we sent clean uptown and rousted one of them boys out, the vittles would all be cold.” “Well, Billy,” demanded Doctor Lake, “what are you going to do, then? We can't go ahead this way, can we? Of course I don't believe in all this foolishness about signs myself; but”--he added--“but I must admit to a little personal prejudice against thirteen at the table.”