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 writin' up there and livin' in one of the old man's best rooms.”

“Hell he is!”

“Yeah?” the constable's voice questioned Throgmartin's opinion about such heresy and expressed his own.

“D' recken it's so? Old Rose is such a thief and a liar.”

“Nope,” declared the constable, “the old nigger never would of made up a lie like that,—never would of thought of it. Old Cap'n Renfrew's gettin' childish; this nigger's takin' advantage of it. Down at the liver'-stable the boys were talkin' about Siner goin' to git married, an' dern if old man Renfrew didn't git cut up about it!”

“Well,” opined Throgmartin, charitably, “the old man livin' there all by himself—I reckon even a nigger is some comp'ny. They're funny damn things, niggers is; never know a care nor trouble. Lord! I wish I was as care-free as they are!”

“Don't you, though!” agreed the constable, with the weight of the white man's burden on his shoulders. For this is a part of the Southern credo,—that all negroes are gay, care-free, and happy, and that if one could only be like the negroes, gay, care-free, and happy—Ah, if one could only be like the negroes!

None of this gossip reached Peter directly, but a sort of back-wash did catch him keenly through young