“Dis is a mighty fine place you got hyeah.  Hit mus’ be a kind of a hotel or boa’din’ house, ain’t hit?”

“Yes, something like.”

“We don’ have nuffin’ lak dis down ouah way.  Co’se, we’s jes’ common folks.  We wo’ks out in de fiel’, and dat’s about all we knows—­fiel’, chu’ch an’ cabin.  But I’s mighty glad my Zach ‘s gittin’ up in de worl’.  He nevah were no great han’ fu’ wo’k.  Hit kin’ o’ seemed to go agin his natur’.  You know dey is folks lak dat.”

“Lots of ’em, lots of ’em,” said Mr. Turner.

The crowd of men had been augmented by a party from out of the card room, and they were listening intently to the old fellow’s chatter.  They felt now that they ought to laugh, but somehow they could not, and the twitching of their careless faces was not from suppressed merriment.

The visitor looked around at them, and then remarked:  “My, what a lot of boa’dahs you got.”

“They don’t all stay here,” answered Turner seriously; “some of them have just dropped in to see their friends.”

“Den I ‘low Zach’ll be drappin’ in presently.  You mus’ ‘scuse me fu’ talkin’ ’bout him, but I’s mighty anxious to clap my eyes on him.  I’s been gittin’ on right sma’t dese las’ two yeahs, an’ my ol’ ooman she daid an’ gone, an’ I kin’ o’ lonesome, so I jes’ p’omised mysef dis Crismus de gif’ of a sight o’ Zach.  Hit do look foolish fu’ a man ez ol’ ez me to be a runnin’ ‘roun’ de worl’ a spen’in’ money dis away, but hit do seem so ha’d to git Zach home.”

“How long are you going to be with us?”

“Well, I ‘specs to stay all o’ Crismus week.”

“Maybe—­” began one of the men.  But Turner interrupted him.  “This gentleman is my guest.  Uncle,” turning to the old man, “do you ever—­would you—­er.  I’ve got some pretty good liquor here, ah—­”

Zach’s father smiled a sly smile.  “I do’ know, suh,” he said, crossing his leg high.  “I’s Baptis’ mys’f, but ‘long o’ dese Crismus holidays I’s right fond of a little toddy.”

A half dozen eager men made a break for the bar, but Turner’s uplifted hand held them.  He was an autocrat in his way.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, “but I think I remarked some time ago that Mr. Shackelford was my guest.”  And he called the waiter.

All the men had something and tapped rims with the visitor.

“’Pears to me you people is mighty clevah up hyeah; ‘tain’ no wondah Zachariah don’ wan’ to come home.”

Just then they heard a loud whoop outside the door, and a voice broke in upon them singing thickly, “Oh, this spo’tin’ life is surely killin’ me.”  The men exchanged startled glances.  Turner looked at them, and there was a command in his eye.  Several of them hurried out, and he himself arose, saying:  “I’ve got to go out for a little while, but you just make yourself at home, uncle.  You can lie down right there on that sofa and push that button there—­see, this way—­if you want some more toddy.  It shan’t cost you anything.”