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The smoker twinkled. "You're different from Ned Ferry," he said.

"You'll be the first prisoner I ever shot if you get any funnier!"

"Oh--I--just don't feel as if I could, that's all."

I mumbled something about never wishing to tempt any one.

"Only to take care of you whenever I had the chance. Go, now, you must!"

Our intercourse became more amiable and the fellow dragged in his advice that I spend the rest of the night at the house of Mr. Oliver. His acquaintance with that gentleman seemed to grow while we talked, and broke into bloom like a magician's rosebush. He described him as a kind old bird who made hospitality to strangers his meat and drink. A conjecture darted into my mind. "Why, yes! that is his married son, is he not, yonder in the cabin; the one with the fair hair?"

"Good-morning," he responded, tardily and grimly. "Well, you air in a hurry."

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