Noah took Eaton's explanation in courtly spirit, and so the wrinkles were made smooth. I was relieved, though not pleased; I would have found no fault with Noah had he gone a ruder course. “Where is this Catron?” asked Noah. “As to that,” replied Eaton, “I think myself qualified to answer. I sent to learn his condition, and with some purpose, so soon as he was able, of taking him up where you let go of him. The word came back that he had quit the town.” It was Peg, however, who minded her debt to Noah. She went to him with wet eyes, and, without word, took his sword hand in both of hers and kissed it. Noah started back. “That is too much,” he cried. “It is I who will be now in arrears to you for the balance of my days.” It stood the day but one following the affair of Gadsby's, and I was comfortably in my own room engaged about my letters. If I were to bide with the General, and not immediately to see Nashville, then I must name a manager and put my plantations in some kind of command. There were to be missives from the General, also, and we had arranged to send them west on the next day by hand of a special express. It would take him six weeks, that horseman and his saddle-bags, with roads as they were, to win to Tennessee; we were then at some fever, you will understand, to have our mails concluded and riding on their way. As I drove my quill rapidly across the pages, Jim was busy in the adjoining bedroom, giving a polish to my boots. Jim cheered himself over his labors with snatches of song. As I wrote hard at my desk, I could hear him, in a most lugubrious refrain: Thar's a word to be uttered to d'rich man an' his pride; (Which a man is frequent richest when it's jest befo' he died.) Thar's a word to be uttered to d'hawg a-eatin' truck; (Which a hawg is frequent fattest when it's jest befo' he's stuck.) “Cease that outlandish howling,” I commanded furiously. “Shore, Marse Major!” said Jim, coming into the room where I sat, and bringing one of my high horseman boots on his arm, polishing it the while with unabated ardor; “shore, Marse Major! An' yet, that's a mighty well liked song up an' down d'Cumberland. Hit's been made, that song is, by Miss Polly Hines; little Miss Polly who lives over on d'Possom Trot. She makes it all about a villyun who comes fo'closin' 'round her paw's betterments for what he owes that Dudleyville bank, an' sellin' 'em off at public vandoo. Marse Major, you-all oughter listen to d'res' of that roundelay; if you'd only hear it plumb through, Jim sort o' reckons you'd like it.” I made no response, but kept on with my work. I was not to be moved of ballads as Jim rendered them, even though vouched to be the offput of that Sappho of the 'Possom Trot. Ten minutes went racing by and Jim reappeared in the door.