“My son,” said he after awhile, “ain’t there some way of finding out who the other fellows are? Ain’t you got some word you want Seab Griffin”—this was the young lawyer—“to spell for you?” Spelling was the Major’s weakness. He was a well-educated man, and could write vigorous English, but only a few days before he had asked me how many _f_’s there are in _graphic_. “Let’s see,” he went on, rubbing the top of his head. “Do you spell _Byzantium_ with two _y_’s, or with two _i_’s, or with one _y_ and one _i_? It’ll make Seab feel right good to be asked that before company, and he certainly needs to feel good if he’s going with that crowd.” So, with a manuscript copy in my hand, I went hurriedly down the hall and put the important question. Mr. Griffin was all politeness, but not quite sure of the facts in the case. But he searched in his books of reference, including the Geographical Gazette, until finally he was able to give me the information I was supposed to stand in need of. While he was searching, Mr. Pulliam turned to me and inquired what day the paper came out. When told that the date was Tuesday, he smiled and nodded his head mysteriously. “That’s good,” he declared; “you’ll be in time to ketch the news.” [Illustration: Inquired what day the paper came out.] “What news?” I inquired. “Well, ef you don’t hear about it before to-morrer night, jest inquire of Major Perdue. He’ll tell you all about it.” Mr. Pulliam’s tone was so supercilious that I was afraid the Major would lose his temper and come raging down the hallway. But he did nothing of the kind. When I returned he was fairly beaming, and seemed to be perfectly happy. The Major took down the names in his note-book—I have forgotten all except those of Buck Sanford and Larry Pulliam; they were all from the country except Larry Pulliam and the young lawyer. After my visit to the room, the men spoke in lower tones, but every word came back to us as distinctly as before. “The feed of the horses won’t cost us a cent,” remarked young Sanford. “Tom Gresham said he’d ’ten’ to that. They’re in the stable right now. And we’re to have supper in Tom’s back room, have a little game of ante, and along about twelve or one we’ll sa’nter down and yank that darned nigger from betwixt his blankets, ef he’s got any, and leave him to cool off at the cross-roads. Won’t you go ’long, Seab, and see it well done?” “I’ll go and see if the supper’s well done, and I’ll take a shy at your ante,” replied Mr. Griffin. “But when it comes to the balance of the programme—well, I’m a lawyer, you know, and you couldn’t expect me to witness the affair. I might have to take your cases and prove an alibi, you know, and I couldn’t conscientiously do that if I was on hand at the time.” “The Ku-Klux don’t have to have alibis,” suggested Larry Pulliam. “Perhaps not, still—” Apparently Mr. Griffin disposed of the matter with a gesture.