My friend “Kun’l” Peets, who was a comparatively recent importation into the river country, came over the bridge with a basket on his arm containing a couple of setter pups that he wanted Posey to see, with a view of possibly having them applied on his account at the store. He was an ex-confederate from Tennessee, and seemed sadly out of harmony with his surroundings. The pups were liberated on the platform and subjected to much poking about and criticism by the experts. The Colonel considered them “fine specimens of a noble strain,” but Wirrick thought “they looked like they had some wolf blood in ’em.” Posey agreed to accept the little animals in lieu of eight dollars owed by the Colonel, with the understanding that they were to be kept for him until they were a month older. Everybody understood his kindly consideration for the old man, and knew that he had no earthly use for the pups. The assemblage in front of the store became more varied and interesting with the arrival of other visitors. The chairs were exhausted and the platform edge was entirely occupied. Bill Stiles had just commenced the narration of a horse trade story, when an old man appeared in the twilight on the bridge. He wore a long gray overcoat, although the evening was very warm. The story stopped and interest was centered on the slowly approaching figure. I asked Posey who he was. He bent his head toward me confidentially, and, in something between a low whistle and a whisper, replied: “S-s-s-s-t——‘the Serpent’s Hiss’!!!” We were in prohibition territory, and the old “bootlegger” was bringing twelve flat pint bottles in twelve inside pockets of the gray overcoat to break the drought at Posey’s store. He was an unbonded warehouse, and the reason for the mysterious gathering on that particular evening was now apparent. He came slowly up the steps, and seemed embarrassed to find a stranger present. I was introduced and vouched for by my friend Posey, and he seemed much relieved. Conversation had been rather dull during the last half hour, but now it had a merry note. The jaundiced Viking brightened up and wondered how many bird’s nests had been constructed with the whiskers that Wirrick had left up in the bayou. Time worn jokes were laughed at more than usual. Some new insurance that Posey had acquired was regarded as indicating a big fire as soon as business got dull, and Doc Dust was told that he ought to keep the small bag of oats under his buggy seat away from the medicine cases or he would lose his horse. “Well, time is flitt’n,” remarked the “Serpent’s Hiss,” as he rose and departed for the barn lot behind the store. One by one, like turtles slipping off a log into a stream, those who sat along the edge of the platform dropped silently to the ground and followed him, and most of the occupants of the chairs joined the procession. Like the oriflamme of Henry of Navarre, the gray overcoat led them on through the dusk.