Probably they were all at the tavern even now; and here was he, wet and wretched, with a cold wind and a yet colder rain beating in his face, miles and miles away! Then at last, out of the darkness and mist and the falling rain, down the waste of muddy roads, and far across the desolate fields, one by one the lights of the capitol city blinked at him. He drove up High Street, past the Niel House, for he was prejudiced against so pretentious an establishment; and turning down a side street drew up in front of a small frame building, which a creaking sign announced to be Roebuck's Tavern. Roebuck was an old friend, though they had not met in years; and it was Roebuck himself, who, hearing the rattle of wheels before his door, hurried out from the bar, lantern in hand, to bid his guest welcome. He was a burly figure of a man, florid of face, but bland and smiling. “John,” cried Mr. Tucker weakly, “John, I wonder if you'll know me!” “Know you?” swinging up the lantern. “Know you?” scrutinizing doubtfully the limp figure in the buggy. “Why, God bless me—it's Tucker, of the Red Brick at Benson!” He seized Tucker's cold fingers in a friendly grasp, and fell to bawling for his hostler. When the latter appeared, he assisted his friend to alight, and bore him indoors. “Why, man, you're wet to the skin!” he cried. “You'll be after having something to eat, a drop to drink, and a pipe.” “A dish of licker right now, if you please, John,” said Tucker, turning his eyes in the direction of the bar; and though he doubted if Roebuck would have anything to tell him, he made his inquiries concerning the runaways. Roebuck nodded. “They stopped here for supper. Gibbs I knowed by sight, but his lady was a stranger to me.” “Where are they now?” cried Tucker fiercely. “Here?” “Nay, man, they only stopped for supper, as I told you. When they were leaving they asked me about the road to Washington in Fayette County; but they'll have to stop for the night on the way; their team wa'n'. good for ten miles more when they drove away from here.” Mr. Tucker groaned aloud. “I'd keep on after them, but I ain't fit, John,” he said. “You do look beat,” agreed his friend. “I been after them since early morning,” said Tucker. “Your daughter, maybe?” “My wife,” answered Tucker briefly. “You don't tell me!” cried Roebuck. “Let's see, it was your first wife I knowed, wa'n'. it?” “My second,” said Tucker. “Sarah.” “So it was. I mind now that was her name.” “A good woman,” said Tucker, and said no more. Presently, however, when he had eaten, and his eating included much drinking, they established themselves for privacy's sake in the tavern parlour near a small table, where as the night wore on, there was a steady accumulation of empty bottles, “Dead soldiers,” Roebuck called them. It was then that Tucker poured the narrative of his wrongs into the listening ear of his ancient friend.