The curious and the idle drifted back to the great house; then the memory of their own affairs, not urgent, generally speaking, but still of some casual interest, took them down the disused carriage-way to the red gate and so off into the heat of the summer day.  Crenshaw’s wagon, driven by Crenshaw’s man, vanished in a cloud of gray dust with the two old slaves, Aunt Alsidia and Uncle Ben, who were being taken to the Crenshaw place to be cared for pending the settlement of the Quintard estate.  Bladen parted from Crenshaw with expressions of pleasure at having had the opportunity of making his acquaintance, and further delivered himself of the civil wish that they might soon meet again.  Then Crenshaw, assisted by Bob Yancy, proceeded to secure the great house against intrusion.

“I make it a p’int to always stay and see the plumb finish of a thing,” explained Yancy.  “Otherwise you’re frequently put out by hearing of what happened after you left; I can stand anything but disapp’intment of that kind.”

They passed from room to room securing doors and windows, and at last stepped out upon the back porch.

“Hullo!” said Yancy, pointing.

There on a bench by the kitchen door was a small figure.  It was Hannibal Wayne Hazard asleep, with his old spo’tin’ rifle across his knees.  His very existence had been forgotten.

“Well, I declare to goodness!” said Crenshaw.

“What are you going to do with him, Mr. John?”

This question nettled Crenshaw.

“I don’t know as that is any particular affair of mine,” he said.  Now, Mr. Crenshaw, though an excellent man of business, with an unblinking eye on number one, was kindly, on the whole, but there was a Mrs. Crenshaw, to whom he rendered a strict account of all his deeds, and that sacred institution, the home, was only a tolerable haven when these deeds were nicely calculated to fit with the lady’s exactions.  Especially was he aware that Mrs. Crenshaw was averse to children as being inimical to cleanliness and order, oppressive virtues that drove Crenshaw himself in his hours of leisure to the woodshed, where he might spit freely.

“I reckon you’d rather drop a word with yo’ missus before you toted him home?” suggested Yancy, who knew something of the nature of his friend’s domestic thraldom.

“A woman ought to be boss in her own house,” said Crenshaw.

“Feelin’ the truth of that, I’ve never married, Mr. John; I do as I please and don’t have to listen to a passel of opinion.  But I was going to say, what’s to hinder me from toting that boy to my home?  There are no calico petticoats hanging up in my closets.”

“And no closets to hang ’em in, I’ll be bound!” rejoined Crenshaw.  “But if you’ll take the boy, Bob, you shan’t lose by it.”

Yancy rested a big knotted hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Come, wake up, sonny!  Yo’ Uncle Bob is ready fo’ to strike out home,” he said.  The child roused with a start and stared into the strange bearded face that was bent toward him.  “It’s yo’ Uncle Bob,” continued Yancy in a wheedling tone.  “Are you the little nevvy what will help him to hook up that old blind mule of hisn ?  Here, give us the spo’tin’ rifle to tote!”