“He said that?” interrupted Major Colfax, half rising in his chair.  “He was a damned scoundrel.”

“So I thought, sir,” I answered.

“The devil you did!” said the Major.

“Tut, Colfax,” said the Colonel, pulling him by the sleeve of his greatcoat, “sit down and let the lad finish.  And then?”

“Mr. Boone had told me of a land agent who had made off with Colonel Campbell’s silver spoons from Abingdon, and how the Colonel had ridden east and west after him for a week with a rope hanging on his saddle.  I began to tell this story, and instead of the description of Mr. Boone’s man, I put in that of Mr. Potts,—­in height some five feet nine, spare, of sallow complexion and a green greatcoat.”

Major Colfax leaped up in his chair.

“Great Jehovah!” he shouted, “you described the wrong man.”

Colonel Clark roared with laughter, thereby spilling some of his toddy.

“I’ll warrant he did so,” he cried; “and I’ll warrant your agent went white as birch bark.  Go on, Davy.”

“There’s not a great deal more, sir,” I answered, looking apprehensively at Major Colfax, who still stood.  “The man vowed I lied, but Tom laid hold of him and was for hurrying him off to Harrodstown at once.”

“Which would ill have suited your purpose,” put in the Colonel.  “And what did you do with him?”

“We put him in a loft, sir, and then I told Tom that he was not Campbell’s thief at all.  But I had a craving to scare the man out of Kentucky.  So I rode off to the neighbors and gave them the tale, and bade them come after nightfall as though to hang Campbell’s thief, which they did, and they were near to smashing the door trying to get in the cabin.  Tom told them the rascal had escaped, but they must needs come in and have jigs and toddies until midnight.  When they were gone, and we called down the man from the loft, he was in such a state that he could scarce find the rungs of the ladder with his feet.  He rode away into the night, and that was the last we heard of him.  Tom was not to blame, sir.”

Colonel Clark was speechless.  And when for the moment he would conquer his mirth, a glance at Major Colfax would set him off again in laughter.  I was puzzled.  I thought my Colonel more human than of old.

“How now, Colfax?” he cried, giving a poke to the Major’s ribs; “you hold the sequel to this farce.”

The Major’s face was purple,—­with what emotion I could not say.  Suddenly he swung full at me.

“Do you mean to tell me that you were the general of this hoax—­you?” he demanded in a strange voice.

“The thing seemed an injustice to me, sir,” I replied in self-defence, “and the man a rascal.”

“A rascal!” cried the Major, “a knave, a poltroon, a simpleton!  And he came to me with no tale of having been outwitted by a stripling.”  Whereupon Major Colfax began to shake, gently at first, and presently he was in such a gale of laughter that I looked on him in amazement, Colonel Clark joining in again.  The Major’s eye rested at length upon Tom, and gradually he grew calm.