“Now, look here, Captain,” Pole said sharply, “don’t you be plumb foolish! Ain’t you got more sense ’an to swallow everything that passes amongst idle women in these mountains? Nelson Floyd, I’ll admit, has got a backbone full o’ the fire o’ youth an’ strong-blooded manhood, but he’s, to my positive knowledge, one o’ the cleanest young men I ever come across. To tell you the truth, I don’t believe he ever made but that one slip. It got out, an’ beca’se he was rich an’ prominent, it raised a regular whirlwind o’ gossip an’ exaggeration. If the same thing had happened to half a dozen other young men round about here, not a word would ’a’ been said.” “Oh, I see!” smiled the planter. “He’s not as black as he’s painted, then?” “Not by a jugful!” said the farmer. “I tell you he’s all right, Captain, an’ folks will know it ’fore long.” CHAPTER III Springtown was about twelve miles west of Darley, only a mile from Captain Duncan’s house, and half a mile from Pole Baker’s humble cottage and small farm. The village had a population of about two hundred souls. It was the county seat; and the court-house, a simple, ante-bellum brick structure, stood in the centre of the public square, round which were clustered the one-storied shops, lawyers’ offices, cotton warehouses, hotel and general stores. Chief among the last mentioned was the well-known establishment of Mayhew & Floyd. It was a long frame building, once white but now a murky gray, a tone which nothing but the brush of time and weather could have given it. It was only a week since Captain Duncan’s talk with Pole Baker, and a bright, inspiring morning, well suited to the breaking of the soil and the planting of seed. The village was agog with the spirit of hope. The post-office was filled with men who had come for their mail, and they stood and chatted about the crops on the long veranda of the hotel and in the front part of Mayhew & Floyd’s store. Pole Baker was in the store talking with Joe Peters, the clerk, about seed-potatoes, when a tall countryman in the neighborhood of forty-five years of age slouched in and leaned heavily against the counter. “I want a box o’ forty-four cartridges,” he said, drawing out a long revolver and rapping on the counter with the butt of it. “What! you goin’ squirrel huntin’?” Peters laughed and winked at Pole. “That gun’s got a long enough barrel to reach the top o’ the highest tree in these mountains.” “You slide around behind thar an’ git me them cartridges!” retorted the customer. “Do yore talkin’ to somebody else. I’ll hunt what an’ whar I want to, I reckon.” “Oh, come off yore perch, Jeff Wade!” the clerk said, with another easy laugh. “You hain’t nobody’s daddy. But here you are. Forty cents a box, full count, every one warranted to make a hole an’ a noise. Want me to charge ’em?”