During the months spent at the plantation there is little social visiting among the gentlemen, and, except on Sundays and occasions of public meetings, the various local clubs offer their only opportunities for seeing each other, Another object—­at least, under the old regime—­was to bring together those who occupied somewhat different social positions.  Formerly the clubs were strictly exclusive, and, indeed, this feature was never lost, but in every community there would be some novi homines, clever men many of them, whom the old gentry were quite willing to recognize, though a marked difference in culture prevented family visiting.  These could be admitted to membership, and at the club-house could be met on equal terms.  The hunting feature was always preserved, though few of the older members ever joined in the sport.  Under the rules there was a place, a day and an hour for the weekly meet; and I remember when it was a safe thing to be at “the White Bridge” on the Santee Canal any Saturday morning at nine o’clock.  Somebody was sure to be there with dogs and driver, prepared for a “wallet-hunt”—­i.e., an all-day hunt with wallets at the crupper well filled with hunter’s cheer.  Once a month the club met for dinner, each member “finding” in turn, and on that day a single drive, or at most two, was all that could be enjoyed.  The club-house was a plain frame building in the woods, with a huge fireplace at each end, heavy stationary pine table extending the length of the room, and broad soft-pine benches.  The dishes, wines, liquors and cigars were all specified in the rules, the finder being allowed two extra dishes at will, and supplying all the crockery, cutlery and glass.  The kitchen was a rough shed close to the cool and shaded spring of pure, clear water.  Being myself but a guest, I have not the privilege of extending an invitation to the reader; so, by his leave, we will drop the present tense and I will assume the part of raconteur.  How vividly do the scenes of that day come back through the highways of memory, crowded as they are with experiences of more than twenty varied years!  As I rode up to the bridge on that bright December morning I found a party which promised rare sport.  There was Kit Gillam with his crooked nose, and Tom Clifton with his deadly Manton and fine cry of dogs, and cheery Jack Parker, who hunted only for the good company, and whose gun was as likely as not to be unloaded when the deer came out to him.  Two drives were decided on which might be relied on for shooting, and yet were small enough to give ample time for reaching the club-house before dinner.

As we rode toward our stands I thought it a good chance to settle a point which had long excited my curiosity.  “Kit,” said I, “I have often wondered how your nose got out of plumb.  What caused it?”

“When I was a little bit of a boy I fell down and stepped on it.”