He produced the bit of cardboard; Ross fished up a chewed stump of lead pencil, took it in cold, stiff fingers, and disfigured the square with eccentric scribblings.

“They’ll know who it’s meant for,” he said, apologetically, “because I’m here.  What’s likely to happen after we get rid of the card?”

“I told you about hanging your hat on the rack and disposing your legs.”

“I remember now,” sighed Ross.  They had been going slower and slower.  The angle of inclination toward each other became more and more pronounced.

“We must stand by each other,” whispered Abner.

“I will—­if I can stand at all,” murmured the other boy, huskily.

“Oh, Lord!” They had rounded the big clump of evergreens and found Aunt Missouri Claiborne placidly rocking on the front porch!  Directed to mount steps and ring bell, to lay cards upon the servant, how should one deal with a rosy-faced, plump lady of uncertain years in a rocking-chair.  What should a caller lay upon her?  A lion in the way could not have been more terrifying.  Even retreat was cut off.  Aunt Missouri had seen them.  “Howdy, boys; how are you?” she said, rocking peacefully.  The two stood before her like detected criminals.

Then, to Ross’s dismay, Abner sank down on the lowest step of the porch, the westering sun full in his hopeless eyes.  He sat on his cap.  It was characteristic that the freckled boy remained standing.  He would walk up those steps according to plan and agreement, if at all.  He accepted no compromise.  Folding his straw hat into a battered cone, he watched anxiously for the delivery of the card.  He was not sure what Aunt Missouri’s attitude might be if it were laid on her.  He bent down to his companion.  “Go ahead,” he whispered.  “Lay the card.”

Abner raised appealing eyes.  “In a minute.  Give me time,” he pleaded.

“Mars’ Ross—­Mars’ Ross!  Head ’em off!” sounded a yell, and Babe, the house-boy, came around the porch in pursuit of two half-grown chickens.

“Help him, Rossie,” prompted Aunt Missouri, sharply.  “You boys can stay to supper and have some of the chicken if you help catch them.”

Had Ross taken time to think, he might have reflected that gentlemen making formal calls seldom join in a chase after the main dish of the family supper.  But the needs of Babe were instant.  The lad flung himself sidewise, caught one chicken in his hat, while Babe fell upon the other in the manner of a football player.  Ross handed the pullet to the house-boy, fearing that he had done something very much out of character, then pulled the reluctant negro toward to the steps.

“Babe’s a servant,” he whispered to Abner, who had sat rigid through the entire performance.  “I helped him with the chickens, and he’s got to stand gentle while you lay the card on.”

Confronted by the act itself, Abner was suddenly aware that he knew not how to begin.  He took refuge in dissimulation.