'“Oh, I see,” smiled the planter, “he's not as black as he's painted, then.” “Not by a jugful,” said the farmer. “I tell you he's all right, an' folks will know it 'fore long.” III SPRINGTOWN was about twelve miles west of Darley, only a mile from Captain Duncan's house, and half a mile from Pole Baker's humble cottage and small farm. The village had a population of about two hundred souls. It was the county-seat, and the court-house, a simple, ante-bellum brick structure, stood in the centre of the public square, around which were clustered the one-storied shops, lawyer's offices, cotton warehouses, hotel, and general stores. Chief among the last mentioned was the well-known establishment of Mayhew & Floyd. It was a long, frame building, once white but now a murky gray, a tone which nothing but the brush of time and weather could have given it. It was only a week since Captain Duncan's talk with Pole Baker, and a bright, inspiring morning, well suited to the breaking of the soil and the planting of seed. The village was agog with the spirit of hope. The post-office was filled with men who had come for their mail, and they stood and chatted about the crops on the long veranda of the hotel and in the front part of Mayhew & Floyd's store. Pole Baker was in the store talking with Joe Peters, the clerk, about seed potatoes, when a tall countryman, in the neighborhood of forty-five years of age, slouched in and leaned heavily against the counter. “I want a box o' forty-four cartridges,” he said, drawing out a long revolver and rapping on the counter with the butt of it. “What! you goin' squirrel huntin'?” Peters laughed and winked at Pole. “That gun's got a long enough barrel to send a ball to the top o' the highest tree in these mountains.” “You slide around behind thar an' git me them cartridges!” retorted the customer. “Do yore talkin' to somebody else. I'll hunt what an' whar I want to, I reckon.” “Oh, come off yore perch, Jeff Wade!” the clerk said, with another easy laugh. “You hain't nobody's daddy! But here you are. Forty cents a box, full count, every one warranted to make a hole an' a noise. Want me to charge 'em?” “No, I don't; do you hear me?--I don't! An', what's more, I want to know exactly how much I owe this dern house. I've been to a dozen moneylenders 'fore I found what I wanted, but I got it, an' I want to pay what I owe Mayhew & Floyd.” Just then Pole Baker stepped up to the man's side, and, looking under the broad brim of his hat, he said: “Looky' here, Jeff Wade, what you shootin' off yore mouth fer? I 'lowed at fust that you was full, but you hain't drinkin', at least you don't seem to have no bottle on yore person.”