"Then one day when we wuz in the cheer-factory a workin' whar the dust wuz a flyin' like the pike onder a drove o' sheep in summer, a gyuard come to me and says: 'You're wanted, Doggett, in the Governor's office,' and he marched me up thar. Sorter oneasy I wuz, although I knowed I hadn't done nothin'. Thar wuz a man settin' at a desk a writin', and when he heerd me come in, he never turned his head, but jest said, 'Be seated, Doggett.' I sot down and he writ, and he writ. Finally he turned his whirlin'-cheer facin' me and begun a questionin' me, and a talkin' to me jest like a father. "He says: 'Doggett, you're a free man now and I don't want you to never do nothin' to lose your freedom ag'in. Don't you never let me peck up a paper and see wher' you've been in some scrape that'll make people say, Look at Doggett now: John Young Brown made a mistake when he pardoned him!'" "And you've done like he told you, ain't you, Mr. Doggett?" Bunch remarked in a tone of flattery, at this juncture. "Well, I hain't never kept no gun about me sence," Mr. Doggett agreed with a half-smile. "Ner drunk none," suggested Gran'dad. Mr. Doggett grinned easily. "Well, Pap, I jest drink a leetle now and then,--at Christmas times, and New Years, and Thanksgiving, and Fourth o' July." "And at Ground-hog day, and old Abe Linkern's and George Washington's birthdays in February, and at Deceration day in the spreng, and 'long about Labor day in the fall, and between times whenever you're needin' a leetle medicine, and whenever my darter Ann goes away visitin' fer a day er two," amended Gran'dad, with a leer. "He don't git out and hoe, and cut cord wood, and do sech like work all week, like an old feller o' your and my acquaintance, Gran'dad, and then go up town ever' Friday evenin' and let them big lawyer fellers that loves hit, git friendly with him, and git him to treat away ever' cent o' his week's earnin's on 'em!" Jim, who never drank at all, spoke pointedly. Gran'dad colored hotly. "This here room's hotter'n a ginger mill!" he stuttered, making a dash at the door of the stove; but in his flurry the poker fell clattering. Dock giggled disrespectfully at his crestfallen grandparent, but Bunch, seeing the old man's discomfiture, hastened to change the subject. "How's Mr. Lindsay a gittin' along at Jeemeses now?" he asked. Bunch lived two miles away, but managed to keep in reasonable touch with the affairs of the neighborhood on lower Silver Run creek. "Mighty well, hit 'pears to me!" Dock's wizened little face lighted up knowingly. "He give Miss Lucy a purty box Chris'mus. Hit wuz a sortie blue lookin' box--got a purty white-backed lookin'-glass (one them with a handle you hold in your hand) and a white comb and bresh in hit!"