In the tavern the three men were drinking--Murrell with the idea that the more Yancy came under the influence of Slosson's corn whisky the easier his speculation would be managed. Mr. Yancy on his part believed that if Murrell went to bed reasonably drunk he would sleep late and give him the opportunity he coveted, to quit the tavern unobserved at break of day. Gradually the ice of silence which had held them mute at supper, thawed. At first it was the broken lazy speech of men who were disposed to quiet, then the talk became brisk--a steady stream of rather dreary gossip of horses and lands and negroes, of speculations past and gone in these great staples. Hannibal crossed to the corn-field. There, in the friendly gloom, he examined his handkerchief and felt of the rolled-up bill. Then he made count of certain silver and copper coins which he had in his other pocket. Satisfied that he had sustained no loss, he again climbed to the top rail of the fence where he seated himself with an elbow resting on one knee and his chin in the palm of his hand. “I got ten dollars and seventy cents--yes, sir--and the clostest shooting rifle I ever tossed to my shoulder.” He seemed but small to have accomplished such a feat. He meditated for a little space. “I reckon when we strike the settlements again I should like to buy my Uncle Bob a present.” With knitted brows he considered what this should be, canvassing Yancy's needs. He had about decided on a ring such as Captain Murrell was wearing, when he heard the shuffling of bare feet over the ground and a voice spoke out of the darkness. “When yo' get to feelin' like sleep, young boss, Mas'r Slosson he says I show yo' to yo' chamber.” It was Slosson's boy Eph. “Did you-all happen to notice what they're doing in the tavern now?” asked Hannibal. “I low they're makin' a regular hog-killin' of it,” said Eph smartly. Hannibal descended from the fence. “Yes, you can show me my chamber,” he said, and his tone was severe. What a white man did was not a matter for a black man to criticize. They went toward the open door of the tavern. Mr. Slosson's corn whisky had already wrought a marked transformation in the case of Slosson himself. His usually terse speech was becoming diffuse and irrelevant, while vacant laughter issued from his lips. Yancy was apparently unaffected by the good cheer of which he had partaken, but Murrell's dark face was flushed. The Scratch Hiller's ability to carry his liquor exceeded anything he had anticipated. “You-all run along to bed, Nevvy,” said Yancy, as Hannibal entered the room. “I'll mighty soon follow you.” Eph secured a tin candle-stick with a half-burnt candle in it and led the way into the passage back of the bar. “Mas'r Slosson's jus' mo' than layin' back!” he said, as he closed the door after them. “I reckon you-all will lay back, too, when you get growed up,” retorted Hannibal.