Frank was busy at the fire with frying-pan and bacon.  The old negro was worn out.  The young man disregarded his uneasy protests and made him sit in comfort while he cooked a supper for him.

“So you got lost!  Who finally set you straight?  I heard you talking, there, with someone.”

“A young pusson, suh,” said Neb, with dignity.  Lorey had befriended him, he knew, at last; but he had scared him into panic to begin with.  “A young pusson, suh,” he said, “what made me think he was a paintuh, suh, to staht with.  Made me think he was a paintuh, suh, or else de debbil, wid his howlin’.”

Layson laughed long and heartily.  “Must have been Joe Lorey,” he surmised.  “I heard that cry and thought, myself, it was a panther.  He’s the only one on earth, I guess, who can imitate the beasts so well.  Where is he, now?’

“Lawd knows!  I see him dar, close by me, den I seed you in de doah, an’ when I looked aroun’ ag’in, he had plumb faded clean away!”

“They’re wonderful, these mountaineers, with their woods-craft.”

“Debbil craf, mo’ like,” said Neb, a bit resentful, still.

Frank smiled at the thought of his dear Aunt, precise and elegant, compelled to spend the night in a construction camp beneath white-canvas.

“What did Aunt ’Lethe think about a night in tents?” he asked.

“Lawd,” said Neb, plainly trying to gather bravery for something which he wished to say, “I didn’t ax huh.  Too busy with my worryin’.”

“Worrying at what, Neb?”

“Oveh dat Miss Holton an’ her father.”

“Mr. Holton didn’t come, too, did he?”

“No; he didn’t come wid us, suh; but he met us dar down by de railroad.  Wasn’t lookin’ for him, an’ I guess he wasn’t lookin’, jus’ exactly, to see us.  But he was dar an’ now he’s jus’ a membuh of ouah pahty, suh, as good as Cunnel Doolittle.  Hit don’t seem right to me, suh; no suh, hit don’t seem right to me.”

“Why, Neb!”

“An’ dat Miss Barbara!  She was dead sot to see you, an’ Miss ’Lethe was compelled to ax her fo’ to come along.  She didn’t mean to, fust off; no suh.  But she had to, in de end.  Den I war plumb beat when I saw Mister Holton stalkin’ up dat platfohm like he owned it an’ de railroad an’ de hills, and de hull yearth.  But he’s bettuh heah dan down at home, Marse Frank.  He don’t belong down in de bluegrass.”

“I’m afraid you are impertinent, Neb.  Don’t meddle.  You always have been prejudiced against Barbara and her father.”

The old negro answered quickly, bitterly.  “I ain’t likely to fuhgit,” said he, “dat de only blow dat evuh fell upon my back was from his han’!  I guess you rickollick as well as I do.  He cotch me coon-huntin’ on his place an’ strung me up.  He’d jes’ skinned me dar alive if you-all hadn’t heered my holler in’ an’ run in.”

Layson was uneasy at the turn the talk had taken.  “That was years ago, Neb,” he expostulated.