They nodded.

“What if Mr. Slosson totes a tickler, too?” asked Keppel insinuatingly.  This opened an inviting field for conjecture.

“That won’t make no manner of difference.  Why?  Because it’s a powerful drawback fo’ a man to know he’s in the wrong, just as it’s a heap in yo’ favor to know you’re in the right.”

“My father’s got a tickler; I seen it often,” vouchsafed Henry.

“It’s a foot long, with a buck horn handle.  Gee whiz!—­he keeps it keen; but he never uses it on no humans,” said Keppel.

“Of course he don’t; he’s a high-spirited, right-actin’ gentleman.  But what do you reckon he’d feel obliged to do if a body stole one of you-all?” inquired Yancy.

“Whoop!  He’d carve ’em deep!” cried Keppel.

At this moment Mrs. Cavendish appeared, bringing Yancy’s breakfast.  In her wake came Connie with the baby, and the three little brothers who were to be accorded the cherished privilege of seeing the poor gentleman eat.

“You got a nice little family, ma’am,” said Yancy.

“Well, I reckon nobody complains mo’ about their children than me, but I reckon nobody gets mo’ comfort out of their children either.  I hope you-all are a-goin’ to be able to eat, you ain’t had much nourishment.  La, does yo’ shoulder pain you like that?  Want I should feed you?”

“I am sorry, ma’am, but I reckon you’ll have to,” Yancy spoke regretfully.  “I expect I been a passel of bother to you.”

“No, you ain’t.  Here’s Dick to see how you make out with the chicken,” Polly added, as Cavendish presented himself at the opening that did duty as a door.

“This looks like bein’ alive, stranger,” he commented genially.  He surveyed the group of which Yancy was the center.  “If them children gets too numerous, just throw ’em out.”

“You-all ain’t told me yo’ name yet?” said Yancy.

“It’s Cavendish.  Richard Keppel Cavendish, to get it all off my mind at a mouthful.  And this lady’s Mrs. Cavendish.”

“My name’s Yancy—­Bob Yancy.”

Mr. Cavendish exchanged glances with Mrs. Cavendish.  By a nod of her dimpled chin the lady seemed to urge some more extended confidence on his part.  Chills and Fever seated himself at the foot of Yancy’s bed.

“Stranger, what I’m a-goin’ to tell you, you’ll take as bein’ said man to man,” he began, with the impressive air of one who had a secret of great moment to impart; and Yancy hastened to assure him that whatever passed between them, his lips should be sealed.  “It ain’t really that, but I don’t wish to appear proud afo’ no man’s, eyes.  First, I want to ask you, did you ever hear tell of titles?”

Polly and the children hung breathlessly on Mr. Yancy’s reply.

“I certainly have,” he rejoined promptly.  “Back in No’th Carolina we went by the chimneys.”

“Chimneys?  What’s chimneys got to do with titles, Mr. Yancy?” asked Polly, while her husband appeared profoundly mystified.