"I am sorry about that little amount I owe you; I think I'll be able
shortly--" But Bill cut him short. Mayhall Wells, beaten, disgraced,
driven from home on charge of petty crimes, of which he was undoubtedly
guilty, but for which Bill knew he himself was responsible--Mayhall on
his way into exile and still persuading himself and, at that moment,
almost persuading him that he meant to pay that little debt of long
ago--was too much for Flitter Bill, and he proceeded to lie--lying with
deliberation and pleasure.

"Captain Wells," he said--and the emphasis on the title was balm to
Mayhall's soul--"you have protected me in time of war, an' you air
welcome to yo' uniform an' you air welcome to that little debt. Yes," he
went on, reaching down into his pocket and pulling out a roll of bills,
"I tender you in payment for that same protection the regular pay of a
officer in the Confederate service"--and he handed out the army pay for
three months in Confederate greenbacks--"an' five dollars in money of
the United States, of which I an', doubtless, you, suh, air true and
loyal citizens. Captain Wells, I bid you good-by an' I wish ye well--I
wish ye well."

From the stoop of his store Bill watched the captain ride away,
drooping at the shoulders, and with his hands folded on the pommel of
his saddle--his dim blue eyes misty, the jaunty forage cap a mockery of
his iron-gray hair, and the flaps of his coat fanning either side like
mournful wings.

And Flitter Bill muttered to himself:

"Atter he's gone long enough fer these things to blow over, I'm going to