That early June day had been cloudy from dawn; Peter was glad of that, for he meant to pick black-berries, and a sunless day for berry-picking is an unmixed blessing.  The little negroes are such nimblefingered pickers, such locust-like strippers of all near-by patches, that Peter had bad luck at first, and was driven farther afield than he usually went; his search led him even to the edge of the River Swamp, a dismal place of evil repute, wherein cane as tall as a man grew thickly, and sluggish streamlets meandered in and out of gnarled cypress roots, and big water-snakes stretched themselves on branches overhanging the water.  On the edges of the swamp the unmolested vines were thick with fruit.  In the late afternoon Peter had filled his buckets to overflowing with extra-fine berries.

It had been a sultry day for all its sunlessness, and Peter was tired, so tired that his head and back ached.  He looked at the heavy buckets doubtfully; it would be a man-size job to trudge the long sandy road home, so laden.  While he sat there, hating to move, Daddy Neptune Fennick came in sight, hoe and rake and ax on his sturdy shoulder.  The old man cast a shrewd, weather-wise eye at the darkening sky.

“Gwine to hab one spell o’ wedder,” he called.  “Best come on home wid me, Peter, en wait w’ile.”

Even as he spoke a blaze of lightning split the sky and lighted up the swamp.  A loud clap of thunder followed on the heels of it.  Daddy Neptune seized one bucket, Peter the other, and both ran for the shelter of the cabin, some eighth of a mile farther on.  They reached it just as the rain came down in swirling, blinding sheets.

The old man built a fire in his mud fireplace, and prepared the evening meal of broiled bacon, johnny-cake, and coffee.  He and his welcome guest ate from tin plates on their knees, drinking their coffee from tin cups.  Between mouthfuls each gave the other what county news he possessed.  Peter particularly liked that orderly one-roomed cabin, and the fine old man who was his host.

He was an old-timer, was Daddy Neptune, more than six feet tall, and massively proportioned.  His bald head was fringed with a ring of curling gray wool, and a white beard covered the lower portion of an unusually handsome countenance.  He had a shrewd and homely wit, an unbuyable honesty, and such a simple and unaffected dignity of manner and bearing as had won the respect of the county.

The old man lived by himself in the cabin by the River Swamp.  His wife and son had long been dead, and though he had sheltered, fed, clothed, and taught to work several negro lads, these had gone their way.  Peter was particularly attached to him, and the old man returned his affection with interest.