“I’m sorry, but you see, I don’t smoke,” he remarked.

He would have willingly tossed the moke a nickel for his readiness to assist them; but truth to tell, even such small coin happened to be at a premium with the voyagers just then—­although they carried a small fortune in yellowbacks, not for worlds would they think of making use of a single bill for their own benefit—­it was a sacred trust in their eyes.

He strode over to the building where the brilliant light in the window announced headquarters.  Closer investigation disclosed the fact that the glow was caused by an acetylene lamp which piece of enterprise doubtless caused the storekeeper to assume a high place in the estimation of the lazy negroes, and shiftless “white trash” of the neighborhood.

It was a general country store.

Maurice had seen many such, though, as this one happened to be at a point much further south than the others, it doubtless contained features that stamped it unique in his eyes.

But they had no money to spend in groceries just then; and it was an entirely different errand that caused him to venture into the establishment.

Over the door he noticed a sign which he was just able to read.

It at least gave him the name of the proprietor.

Store, and Office of Woodyard.  Kim.  Stallings, Prop.

A gawky clerk, undoubtedly of the “cracker” persuasion, was waiting on several dusky customers, and vainly endeavoring to keep them in a clump, as if he feared to let the bunch scatter, lest certain unprotected articles vanish with their departure.

Looking further Maurice discovered that over in one quarter there seemed to be a sort of enclosure, over which was the significant notice “P.  O.”

He could see that some one was behind the gaudy brass grillwork; and believing that this was likely to be the proprietor, engaged in entering upon his books that late delivery of cordwood to the steamboat, the boy moved that way.

As he stood there in front of the little opening the man beyond looked up.  He seemed surprised to see a stranger.

“Evenin’, sah.  What can I do foh you?” he asked politely, upon discovering that it was a white person.

“Is this Mr. Stallings?” asked Maurice.

“Yes, sah, that is my name,” replied the other, curiously.

“I have just come off a shanty-boat that is tied up here.  I have a chum with me on the boat.  We want to find a man by the name of George Stormways.  Can you tell me if he happens to live near by?”

“Huh!”

The owner of the woodyard and country store bent forward still more and took a closer look at the speaker.  It seemed to Maurice as though Mr. Stallings had suddenly become more deeply interested in the personality of the stranger, though he could not give even a guess just why that should be so.

“George Stormways,” repeated Maurice, slowly and deliberately, as though he wanted the other to fully understand.