“Dat’s a right fine dawg. Miss Shirley she moughty fond ob dawgs, too.” “Fond of dogs, is she?” said Valiant. “I might have known it. It was nice of her to send you here, Uncle Jefferson. You can take me and my traps, I suppose?” “’Pens on whah yo’ gwineter,” answered Uncle Jefferson sapiently. “I’m going to Damory Court.” A kind of shocked surprise that was almost stupefaction spread over the other’s face, like oil over a pool. “Dam’ry Co’ot! Dat’s de old Valiant place. Ain’ nobody lives dar. Ah reck’n ain’ nobody live dar fer mos’ er hun’erd yeahs!” “The old house has a great surprise coming to it,” said Valiant gravely. “Henceforth some one is going to occupy it. How far is it away?” “Measurin’ by de coonskin en th’owin’ in de tail, et’s erbout two mile. Ain’ gwineter live dar yo’se’f, suh, is yo’?” “I am for the present,” was the crisp answer. Uncle Jefferson stared at him a moment with his mouth open. Then ejaculating under his breath, “Fo’ de Lawd! Whut folks gwineter say ter dat!” [Pg 75]he shambled to the rear of the motor and began to unship the steamer-trunk. “By the way,”—John Valiant paused, with the portmanteau in his hands,—“what do you ask for the job?” The owner of the hack scratched his grizzled head. “Ah gen’ly chahges er quahtah er trunk f’om de deepo’ less’n et’s one ob dem ar rich folks f’om up Norf.” “I don’t happen to be rich, so we’ll make it a dollar. What makes you think I’m from the North?” Again the aguish mirth agitated the other, as he put aboard a hamper and one of the motor’s lamps, which Valiant added as an afterthought. “Ah knows et,” he said ingenuously, “but Ah don’ know why. Ah’ll jes’ twis’ er rope eroun’ yo’ trunk. Whut yo’ gwineter do wid dat-ar?” he asked, pointing to the car. “Ah kin come wid ole Sukey—dat’s mah mule—en fotch it in in de mawnin’. Ain’ gwineter rain ter-night nohow.”— This matter having been arranged, they started jogging down the green-bordered road, the bulldog prospecting alongside. A meadow-lark soared somewhere in the overarching blue, dropping golden notes; dusty bumble-bees boomed hither and thither; genial crickets tuned their fiddles in the “tickle-grass” and a hawking dragon-fly paused [Pg 76]for an impudent siesta between the mule’s gyrating ears. “S’pose’n de Co’ot done ben sold en yo’ gwineter fix it up fo’ de new ownah,” hazarded Uncle Jefferson presently. Valiant did not answer directly. “You say the place hasn’t been occupied for many years,” he observed. “Did you ever hear why, Uncle Jefferson?” “Ah done heerd,” said the other vaguely, “but Ah disremembahs. Sumpin dat happened befo’ Ah come heah f’om ol’ Post-Oak Plantation. Reck’n Majah Bristow he know erbout it, er Mis’ Judith—dat’s Miss Shirley’s mothah. Her fathah wus Gen’l Tawm Dandridge, en he died fo’ she wus bawn.”