LITMIR.BIZ

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while to every young girl and youth under twenty he was just “dear Uncle George”—the one man in all Kennedy Square who held their secrets.

      But to our breakfast once more. All four dogs were on their feet now, their tails wagging expectantly, their noses at each of his knees, where they were regaled at regular intervals with choice bits from his plate, the snapping of their solemn jaws expressing their thanks. A second scallop-shell was next lifted from the hearth with the tongs, and deposited sizzling hot on a plate beside the master, the aroma of the oysters filling the room. These having disappeared, as had the former one, together with the waffles and coffee, and the master's appetite being now on the wane, general conversation became possible.

      “Did Mr. Rutter look ill, Todd?” he continued, picking up the thread of the talk where he had left it. “He wasn't very well when I left.”

      “No, sah—neber see him look better. Been up a li'l' late I reckon—Marse Harry mos' gen'ally is a li'l' mite late, sah—” Todd chuckled. “But dat ain't nuthin' to dese gemmans. But he sho' do wanter see ye. Maybe he stayed all night at Mister Seymour's. If he did an' he yered de rumpus dese rapscallions kicked up—yes—dat's you I'm talkin' to”—and he looked toward the dogs—“he'll be roun' yere 'fo' ye gits fru yo' bre'kfus'. Dey do say as how Marse Harry's mighty sweet in dat quarter. Mister Langdon Willits's snoopin' roun' too, but Miss Kate ain't got no use fer him. He ain't quality dey say.”

      His master let him run on; Aunt Jemima was Todd's only outlet during his master's absence, and as this was sometimes clogged by an uplifted broom, he made the best use he could of the opportunities when he and his master were alone. When “comp'ny” were present he was as close-mouthed as a clam and as noiseless as a crab.

      “Who told you all this gossip, Todd?” exclaimed St. George with a smile, laying down his knife and fork.

      “Ain't nary one tol' me—ain't no use bein' tol'. All ye got to do is to keep yo' eyes open. Be a weddin' dar 'fo' spring. Look out, sah—dat shell's still a-sizzlin'. Mo' coffee, sah? Wait till I gits some hot waffles—won't take a minute!” and he was out of the room and downstairs before his master could answer.

      Hardly had he slammed the kitchen door behind him when the clatter and stamp of a horse's hoofs were heard Outside, followed by an impatient rat-a-tat-tat on the knocker.

      The boy dropped his dishes: “Fo' Gawd, dat's Mister Harry!” he cried as he started on a run for the door. “Don't nobody bang de do' down like dat but him.”

      A slender, thoroughly graceful young fellow of twenty-one or two, booted and spurred, his dark eyes flashing, his face tingling with the sting of the early morning air, dashed past the obsequious darky and burst into Temple's presence with the rush of a north-west breeze. He had ridden ten miles since he vaulted into the saddle, had never drawn rein uphill or down, and neither he nor the thoroughbred pawing the mud outside had turned a hair.

      “Hello, Uncle George!” Temple, as has been said, was Uncle George to every girl and youth in Kennedy Square.

      “Why, Harry!” He had sprung from his seat, napkin in hand and had him by both shoulders, looking into his eyes as if he wanted to hug him, and would the first thing he knew. “Where are you from—Moorlands? What a rollicking chap you are, and you look so well and handsome, you dog! And now tell me of your dear mother and your father. But first down with you—here—right opposite—always your place, my dear Harry. Todd, another shell of oysters and more waffles and coffee—everything, Todd, and blazing hot: two shells, Todd—the sight of you, Harry, makes me ravenous again, and I could have eaten my boots, when I got home an hour ago, I was so hungry. But the mare”—here he moved to the window—“is she all right? Spitfire, I suppose—you'd kill anything else, you rascal! But you haven't tied her!”

      “No—never tie her—break her heart if I did. Todd, hang up this coat and hat in the hall before you go.”

      “That's what you said of that horse you bought of Hampson—ran away, didn't he?” persisted his host, his eyes on the mare, which had now become quiet.

      “Yes, and broke his leg. But Spitfire's all right—she'll stand. Where will I sit—here? And now what kind of a time did you have, and who were with you?”

      “Clayton, Doctor Teackle, and the judge.”

      “And how many ducks did you get?” and he dropped into his chair.

      “Twenty-one,” answered St. George, dry-washing his white shapely hands, as he took his seat—a habit of his when greatly pleased.

      “All canvas-backs?”

      “No—five redheads and a mallard.”

      “Where did you put up?” echoed Harry, loosening his riding-jacket to give his knife and fork freer play.

      “I spent a week at Tom Coston's and a week at Craddock. Another lump of sugar, Todd.”

      The boy laughed gently: “Lazy Tom's?”

      “Lazy Tom's—and the best-hearted fellow in the world. They're going to make him a judge, they say and—”

      “—What of—peach brandy? No cream in mine, Todd.”

      “No—you scurrilous dog—of the Common Court,” retorted St. George, looking at him over the top of his cup. “Very good lawyer is Tom—got horse sense and can speak the truth—make a very good judge.”

      Again Harry laughed—rather a forced laugh this time, as if he were trying to make himself agreeable but with so anxious a ring through it that Todd busied himself about the table before going below for fresh supplies, making excuse of collecting the used dishes. If there were to be any revelations concerning the situation at the Seymour house, he did not intend to miss any part of them.

      “Better put Mrs. Coston on the bench and set Tom to rocking the cradle,” said the young man, reaching for the plate of corn pone. “She's a thoroughbred if ever I saw one, and does credit to her blood. But go on—tell me about the birds. Are they flying high?—and the duck blinds; have they fixed them up? They were all going to pot when I was there last.”

      “Birds out of range, most of them—hard work getting what I did. As to the blinds, they are still half full of water—got soaking wet trying to use one. I shot most of mine from the boat just as the day broke,” and then followed a full account of what the party had bagged, with details of every day's adventures. This done, St. George pushed back his chair and faced the young man.

      “And now you take the witness-stand, sir—look me in the eyes, put your hand on your fob-pocket and tell me the truth. Todd says you have been here every day for a week looking as if you had lost your last fip-penny-bit and wild to see me. What has happened?”

      “Todd has a vivid imagination.” He turned in his seat, stretched out his hand, and catching one of the dogs by the nose rubbed his head vigorously.

      “Go on—all of it—no dodging the king's counsellor. What's the matter?”

      The young man glanced furtively at Todd, grabbed another dog, rubbed their two ears together in play, and in a lowered voice, through which a tinge of sadness was only too apparent, murmured:

      “Miss Kate—we've had a falling out.”

      St. George lowered his head suddenly and gave a low whistle:—“Falling out?—what about?”

      Again young Rutter glanced at Todd, whose back was turned, but whose ears were stretched to splitting point. His host nodded understandingly.

      “There, Todd—that will do; now go down and get your breakfast. No more waffles, tell Aunt Jemima. Bring the pipes over here and throw on another log … that's right.” A great sputtering of sparks followed—a spider-legged, mahogany table was wheeled into place, and the dejected darky left the room for the regions below.

      “So you two have had a quarrel! Oh, Harry!—when will you learn to think twice before you speak?

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