“Not a bit on’t,” answered Mr. Middleton.  “I don’t wonder you thought so, such an oudun name!  Her real name is Julia, but I call her Tempest, ’case that’s jist like her.  She’s a regular thunderstorm of lightning, hail and iron slugs.  You’ll see her in Frankfort.  Goin’ into the law thar, are you?”

Stanton answered that he thought he should.

“Well,” said Mr. Middleton, “I’ll give you all my suits, just because you wouldn’t drink and tell a lie to that little gal at home.  I despise liars.  Let me catch a body telling me a lie, I tell you—­”

Here he lifted up his huge foot which was encased in a cowhide boot, something smaller than a canal-boat.  He gave the table a kick which set all the spoons, knives and forks to dancing, spilt the milk and upset the gravy pot.

“Why, Mr. Middleton!” interposed his wife.

“I am sorry, honey,” said he, “but I’ll be hanged if that ar sling ain’t gettin’ the better of the old man.”

After supper was over and the effects of the sling had left Mr. Middleton’s head, he inquired further into the intentions of his guests.  On learning that Mr. Raymond would teach, if he could get the chance, Mr. Middleton said, “I reckon you can teach in Mr. Miller’s school.  I’ll write to him about you, and I reckon he can make room for you.”

It was well for Raymond that Mr. Middleton did not observe his smile of contempt at the idea of being recommended by such an “old cur,” as he secretly styled him.

At a late hour Mr. Middleton conducted the young men to their room, saying as they entered it, “This was Dick’s room, poor dear boy!  For his sake I wish ’twas better, for it was sometimes cold like in the winter; but he’s warm enough now, I reckon, poor fellow!” So saying, he left the room; but Stanton noticed upon the old tin candlestick which his host had put upon the table something which looked very much like tears, so large that he was sure no one but Mr. Middleton could have wept them.

CHAPTER IX

The resemblance of the Cousins

Among Mr. Middleton’s negroes there was a boy twelve years of age whose name was Bob.  On the morning following the incidents narrated in the last chapter, Bob was sent up to make a fire for “the young marsters.”  He had just coaxed the coal and kindlings into a blaze, when Raymond awoke, and spying the negro, called out, “Hello, there!  Tom, Dick, Harry, what may be your name?”

“My name is Bob, sar.”

“Oh, Bob is it?  Bob what?  Have you no other name?”

“No, sar, ’cept it’s Marster Josh.  I ’longs to him.”

“Belong to Master Josh, do you?  His name isn’t Josh, it is Joshua.”

“Yes, marster.”

“Well, then, Bob, if his name is Joshua, what must yours be?” said Raymond.

“Dun know, unless it’s Bobaway,” answered the negro, with a broad grin.

“Bobaway!  That’s rich,” said Raymond, laughing heartily at the rapid advancement of his pupil.