Alek, seeing that he had gotten himself into hot water by the fine diplomacy of his last sentence, immediately began to flounder and totally submerge himself. "No, Mist' Bryant," he repeated, "I won't say 's I _do_ know who b'longs ter dish yer knife, an' I won't say 's I _don't_." And he began to parrot this fatal sentence again and again. It seemed wound about his tongue. He could not rid himself of it. Its very power to make trouble for him seemed to originate the mysterious Afric reason for its repetition. "Is he a very close friend of yourn?" said Bryant, softly. "F-frien'?" stuttered Alek. He appeared to weigh this question with much care. "Well, seems like he _was_ er frien', an' then agin, it seems like he--" "It seems like he _wasn't_?" asked Bryant. "Yes, seh, jest so, jest so," cried Alek. "Sometimes it seems like he _wasn't_. Then agin--" He stopped for profound meditation. The patience of the white man seemed inexhaustible. At length his low and oily voice broke the stillness. "Oh, well, of course if he's a friend of yourn, Alek! You know I wouldn't want to make no trouble for a friend of yourn." "Yes, seh," cried the negro at once. "He's er frien' er mine. He is dat." "Well, then, it seems as if about the only thing to do is for you to tell me his name so's I can send him his knife, and that's all there is to it." Alek took off his hat, and in perplexity ran his hand over his wool. He studied the ground. But several times he raised his eyes to take a sly peep at the imperturbable visage of the white man. "Y--y--yes, Mist' Bryant. ...I raikon dat's erbout all what kin be done. I gwine tell you who b'longs ter dish yer knife." "Of course," said the smooth Bryant, "it ain't a very nice thing to have to do, but--" "No, seh," cried Alek, brightly; "I'm gwine tell you, Mist' Bryant. I gwine tell you erbout dat knife. Mist' Bryant," he asked, solemnly, "does you know who b'longs ter dat knife?" "No, I--" "Well, I gwine tell. I gwine tell who, Mr Bryant--" The old man drew himself to a stately pose and held forth his arm. "I gwine tell who. Mist' Bryant, _dish yer knife b'longs ter Sam Jackson_!" [Illustration: "THE OLD MAN DREW HIMSELF TO A STATELY POSE"] Bryant was startled into indignation. "Who in hell is Sam Jackson?" he growled. "He's a nigger," said Alek, impressively, "and he wuks in er lumber-yawd up yere in Hoswego." IX THE STOVE I "They'll bring her," said Mrs. Trescott, dubiously. Her cousin, the painter, the bewildered father of the angel child, had written to say that if they were asked, he and his wife would come to the Trescotts for the Christmas holidays. But he had not officially stated that the angel child would form part of the expedition. "But of course they'll bring her," said Mrs. Trescott to her husband. The doctor assented. "Yes, they'll have to bring her. They wouldn't dare leave New York at her mercy."