He rang for Aunt Charity. She knew what he wished, and soon came in bringing him his cocktail--his night-cap as she always called it,--only of late he had required several in an evening,--a thing that set the old woman to quarreling with him, for she knew the limit of a gentleman. And, in truth, she was proud of her cocktails. They were made from a recipe given by Andrew Jackson. For fifty years Cook-mother Charity had made one every night and brought it to "old marster" before he retired. Now she proudly brought it to his grandson. "Oh, say Mammy," he said as the old woman started out--"Carpenter will be here directly with his report. Bring another pair of these in--we will want them." The old woman bristled up. "To be sure, I'll fix 'em, honey. He'll not know the difference. But the licker he gits in his'n will come outen the bottle we keep for the hosses when they have the colic. The bran' we keep for gem'men would stick in his th'oat." Travis laughed: "Well--be sure you don't get that horse brand in mine." CHAPTER III JUD CARPENTER An hour afterwards, Travis heard a well-known walk in the hall and opened the door. He stepped back astonished. He released the knob and gazed half angry, half smiling. A large dog, brindled and lean, walked complacently and condescendingly in, followed by his master. At a glance, the least imaginative could see that Jud Carpenter, the Whipper-in of the Acme Cotton Mills, and Bonaparte, his dog, were well mated. The man was large, raw-boned and brindled, and he, also, walked in, complacently and condescendingly. The dog's ears had been cropped to match his tail, which in his infancy had been reduced to a very few inches. His under jaw protruded slightly--showing the trace of bull in his make-up. That was the man all over. Besides he had a small, mean, roguish ear. The dog was cross-eyed--"the only cross-eyed purp in the worl'"--as his master had often proudly proclaimed, and the expression of his face was uncanny. Jud Carpenter's eastern-eye looked west, and his western-eye looked east, and the rest of the paragraph above fitted him also. The dog's pedigree, as his master had drawlingly proclaimed, was "p'yart houn', p'yart bull, p'yart cur, p'yart terrier, an' the rest of him--wal, jes' dog." Reverse this and it will be Carpenter's: Just dog, with a sprinkling of bull, cur, terrier, and hound. Before Richard Travis could protest, the dog walked deliberately to the fireplace and sprang savagely on the helpless old setter dreaming on the rug. The older dog expostulated with terrific howls, while Travis turned quickly and kicked off the intruder.