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 Stott so certain he can't back out of it to save his ornery skin."

"Amen!"

Uncle Boley gave the bench a whack with his hammer that made the bottle of blacking on the shelf jump, and the finished boots standing there in a row shift as if they were setting their heels for a jig.

"Yes, sir; and that ain't all, it ain't half—it ain't more than the first word of what that little feller knows!"

"A man can't hide it—it'll come up agin him, it'll come up agin him out of the ground!"

Uncle Boley's hand trembled as he jerked the awl from the boot-sole and held it like a dagger.

"Miss Sallie's a comin', sir, as I live!"

Texas rose in embarrassment, pushed back his chair, and retreated as far as the partition, where he stood with his back against Uncle Boley's bedroom door. Few marks of his battle with the cowman Sawyer remained on his face that morning, where a new animation lighted the severity of its lines. Neither was there anything to be ashamed of, to draw back and attempt to hide, in his dress, which was neat and clean, with a flash of scarlet necktie at the collar of his gray woolen shirt, and tucked into his bosom as if it sprung from the fire of his heart.