Toward four o’clock that afternoon, a very thin, fair young man shakily heaved himself into a hammock under the trees in that broad backyard wherein, as Valentine Corliss had yesterday noticed, the last iron monarch of the herd, with unabated arrogance, had entered domestic service as a clothes-prop.  The young man, who was of delicate appearance and unhumanly pale, stretched himself at full length on his back, closed his eyes, moaned feebly, cursed the heat in a stricken whisper.  Then, as a locust directly overhead violently shattered the silence, and seemed like to continue the outrage forever, the shaken lounger stopped his ears with his fingers and addressed the insect in old Saxon.

A white jacketed mulatto came from the house bearing something on a silver tray.

“Julip, Mist’ Vilas?” he said sympathetically.

Ray Vilas rustily manoeuvred into a sitting position; and, with eyes still closed, made shift to accept the julep in both hands, drained half of it, opened his eyes, and thanked the cup-bearer feebly, in a voice and accent reminiscent of the melodious South.

“And I wonder,” he added, “if you can tell me——­”

“I’m Miz William Lindley’s house-man, Joe Vaxdens,” said the mulatto, in the tone of an indulgent nurse.  “You in Miz Lindley’s backyard right now, sittin’ in a hammick.”

“I seem to gather almost that much for myself,” returned the patient.  “But I should like to know how I got here.”

“Jes’ come out the front door an’ walk’ aroun’ the house an’ set down.  Mist’ Richard had to go downtown; tole me not to wake you; but I heerd you splashin’ in the bath an’ you tole me you din’ want no breakfuss——­”

“Yes, Joe, I’m aware of what’s occurred since I woke,” said Vilas, and, throwing away the straws, finished the julep at one draught.  “What I want to know is how I happened to be here at Mr. Lindley’s.”

“Mist’ Richard brought you las’ night, suh.  I don’ know where he got you, but I heered a considerable thrashum aroun’, up an’ down the house, an’ so I come help him git you to bed in one vem spare-rooms.”  Joe chuckled ingratiatingly.  “Lord name!  You cert’n’y wasn’t askin’ fer no bed!”

He took the glass, and the young man reclined again in the hammock, a hot blush vanquishing his pallor.  “Was I—­was I very bad, Joe?”

“Oh, you was all right,” Joe hastened to reassure him.  “You was jes’ on’y a little bit tight.”

“Did it really seem only a little?” the other asked hopefully.

“Yessuh,” said Joe promptly.  “Nothin’ at all.  You jes’ wanted to rare roun’ little bit.  Mist’ Richard took gun away from you——­”

“What?”

“Oh, I tole him you wasn’ goin’ use it!” Joe laughed.  “But you so wile be din’ know what you do.  You cert’n’y was drunkes’ man I see in long while,” he said admiringly.  “You pert near had us bofe wore out ‘fore you give up, an’ Mist’ Richard an’ me, we use’ to han’lin’ drunkum man, too—­use’ to have big times week-in, week-out ‘ith Mist’ Will—­at’s Mist’ Richard’s brother, you know, suh, what died o’ whiskey.”  He laughed again in high good-humour.  “You cert’n’y laid it all over any vem ole times we had ‘ith Mist’ Will!”