The elder man cocked his head on one side, much as a thrush contemplates
a worm.

"I smell a wise wit, somewhere. Young man, who taught you so capital a
notion?"

"Ruby did."

"Pack o' stuff! Ruby hadn't the--stop a minute! 'twas that clever
fellow you fetched ashore, on Monday. Of course--of course! How came
it to slip my mind?"

Young Zeb turned away; but the old man was after him, quick as thought,
and had laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Is it bitter, my son?"

"It is bitter as death, Pa'son."

"My poor lad. Step in an' break your fast with me--poor lad, poor lad!
Nay, but you shall. There's a bitch pup i' the stables that I want your
judgment on. Bitter, eh? I dessay. I dessay. I'm thinking of walking
her--lemon spot on the left ear--Rattler strain, of course. Dear me,
this makes six generations I can count back that spot--an' game every
one. Step in, poor lad, step in: she's a picture."



CHAPTER VI.