CHAPTER 7.  A FRIEND ON THE ROAD

Rain fell that night—­gentle rain and warm, for the south wind rose at midnight.  At four o clock a shower made the shingles over Chad rattle sharply, but without wakening the lad, and then the rain ceased; and when Chad climbed stiffly from his loft—­the world was drenched and still, and the dawn was warm, for spring had come that morning, and Chad trudged along the road—­unchilled.  Every now and then he had to stop to rest his foot.  Now and then he would see people getting breakfast ready in the farm-houses that he passed, and, though his little belly was drawn with pain, he would not stop and ask for something to eat—­for he did not want to risk another rebuff.  The sun rose and the light leaped from every wet blade of grass and bursting leaf to meet it—­leaped as though flashing back gladness that the spring was come.  For a little while Chad forgot his hunger and forgot his foot—­like the leaf and grass-blade his stout heart answered with gladness, too, and he trudged on.

Meanwhile, far behind him, an old carriage rolled out of a big yard and started toward him and toward Lexington.  In the driver’s seat was an old gray-haired, gray-bearded negro with knotty hands and a kindly face; while, on the oval shaped seat behind the lumbering old vehicle, sat a little darky with his bare legs dangling down.  In the carriage sat a man who might have been a stout squire straight from merry England, except that there was a little tilt to the brim of his slouch hat that one never sees except on the head of a Southerner, and in his strong, but easy, good-natured mouth was a pipe of corn-cob with a long cane stem.  The horses that drew him were a handsome pair of half thoroughbreds, and the old driver, with his eyes half closed, looked as though, even that early in the morning, he were dozing.  An hour later, the pike ran through an old wooden-covered bridge, to one side of which a road led down to the water, and the old negro turned the carriage to the creek to let his horses drink.  The carriage stood still in the middle of the stream and presently the old driver turned his head:  “Mars Cal!” he called in a low voice.  The Major raised his head.  The old negro was pointing with his whip ahead and the Major saw something sitting on the stone fence, some twenty yards beyond, which stirred him sharply from his mood of contemplation.

“Shades of Dan’l Boone!” he said, softly.  It was a miniature pioneer—­the little still figure watching him solemnly and silently.  Across the boy’s lap lay a long rifle—­the Major could see that it had a flintlock—­and on his tangled hair was a coonskin cap—­the scalp above his steady dark eyes and the tail hanging down the lad’s neck.  And on his feet were—­moccasins!  The carriage moved out of the stream and the old driver got down to hook the check-reins over the shining bit of metal that curved back over the little saddles to which the boy’s eyes had swiftly strayed.  Then they came back to the Major.