“Them was awful minutes fer me. I could do nawthin’, fer the playin’ kind o’ spelled me. ’Hen I seen the fiddler begin to move toward the canal an’ the mad dancin’ felly backin’ nearer an’ nearer the bank, I tried to git up but I kicked out with both feet an’ fell sprawlin’ on the groun’. “‘Back to your corner, Jawhn!’ the ole man called. “‘Corners next!’ yelled the dancer, kickin’ up his heels an’ th’owin’ out his arms like he was grabbin’ somethin’. Then come an awful cry. They was a splash. He’d gone over the bank. “I jumped out, fer the music hed stopped, an’ started toward the spot. But ’fore I got there Hiram hed th’owed away his fiddle an’ run to the canal, an’ was down on his knees starin’ inter the wotter. A head come above the surface. Then an arm reached wildly out. The ole man bent over an’ grasped the hand. But it wasn’t no uset, fer he’d nawthin’ to support himself with. He took holt o’ the bank with his withered fingers, but the arm give ’way an’ he toppled over. Fer a minute all was still. I leaned over the wotter an’ waited. They was a ripple toward the middle, an’ two heads come up. I seen Hiram Gum’s long black hair an’ beard an’ his drawn face ez he looked at the sky overhead. Then they disappeared agin. The surface of the canal become quiet an’ still like nawthin’ hed ben happenin’. Then I turned an’ run. “I flew along the towpath, acrosst the clearin’, inter the woods agin, an’ down toward the river where the boats lay hid among the willer bushes. An’ ez I went crashin’ th’oo the branches I hear a girl’s voice callin’. “‘Hiram,’ she sais, ‘why was you fiddlin’? I thot you was never comin’.’ “Another second an’ I was th’oo the willers an’ on the bank. There, settin’ in a boat, her hands on the oars ready to pull away, was Susan Billings.” The Patriarch beat his cane softly on the floor and hummed a snatch of a tune. There came a short, quick puffing as the Loafer drew on his pipe, until the bright coals shone in the darkness. “But Sam Washin’ton----” The old man arose slowly. “I don’t keer ’bout Sam Washin’ton. I must be goin’ home. I’ll git the rhuem’tism on sech a night sure, fer I’ve no horse-chestnut in me pocket.” CHAPTER XVIII. _The “Good Un.”_