Dick slipped out of the back door and soon returned holding Frank firmly by the collar. As they entered, Uncle Bobbie said to the negro, "Now's yer chance, Bill; git out quick 'fore we change our minds." And the astonished darkey bolted. "Now Frank," said the old gentleman kindly, when Dick had placed his prisoner in a chair, "tell us all about it." And young Goodrich, too frightened almost to speak above a whisper, told the whole miserable story. "Too bad; too bad," muttered Uncle Bobbie, when Frank had finished. "To-be-sure, taint no more'n I expected; gamblin' church members ain't got no call to kick if their children play cards fer money. What'll we do, Dick?" Dick was silent, but unseen by Frank, he motioned toward the door. [Illustration: "Too bad, too bad, muttered Uncle Bobbie."] Uncle Bobbie understood. "I reckon yer right," he said, slowly, "tares an' wheat--tares an' wheat. But what about them notes?" "I'll fix Whitley," replied Dick. Frank looked at him in wonder. "Air you sure you can do it?" asked Uncle Bobbie; "'cause if you can't--" "Sure," replied Dick; "I'll write him a line tonight." Then to Frank: "You can go now, sir, and don't worry about Jim Whitley; he will never trouble you by collecting the notes." Frank, stammering some unintelligible reply, rose to his feet. "Wait a bit young man," said Uncle Bobbie, "I want to tell ye somethin' before ye go. To-be-sure, I don't think ye'll ever be a very _bad_ citizen, but you've shown pretty clearly that ye can be a mighty mean one. An' I'm afraid ye'll never be much credit to the church, 'cause a feller's got to be a _man_ before he can be much of a Christian. Pieces of men like you don't count much on either side; they just sort o' fill in. But what ye want to do is to quit tryin' so blamed hard to be respectable and be _decent_. Now run on home to yer maw and don't tell nobody where ye've been to-night. Mr. Falkner he will look after yer friend Whitley." CHAPTER XXII The sun was nearly three hours high above the western hilltops in the mountain district of Arkansas, as a solitary horseman stopped in the shadow of the timber that fringed the edge of a deep ravine. It was evident from the man's dress, that he was not a native of that region; and from the puzzled expression on his face, as he looked anxiously about, it was clear that he had lost his way. Standing in the stirrups he turned and glanced back over the bridle path along which he had come, and then peered carefully through the trees to the right and left; then with an impatient oath, he dropped to the saddle and sat staring straight ahead at a lone pine upon the top of a high hill a few miles away. "There's the hill with the signal tree beyond Simpson's all right," he said, "but how in thunder am I to get there; this path don't go any farther, that's sure," and from the distant mountain he turned his gaze to the deep gulch that lay at his feet.