his hands. He was tall, black, and gaunt, partly bald, with tufted hair.
One leg was swathed in rags, and his eyes, as he raised them, wore a
cowed and furtive look.

"Well, Uncle Jim, why aren't you at work?" called Cresswell from the
roadside. The old man rose painfully to his feet, swayed against the
cabin, and clutched off his cap.

"It's my leg again, Master Harry--the leg what I hurt in the gin last
fall," he answered, uneasily.

Cresswell frowned. "It's probably whiskey," he assured his companion, in
an undertone; then to the man:

"You must get to the field to-morrow,"--his habitually calm, unfeeling
positiveness left no ground for objection; "I cannot support you in
idleness, you know."

"Yes, Master Harry," the other returned, with conciliatory eagerness; "I
knows that--I knows it and I ain't shirking. But, Master Harry, they
ain't doing me right 'bout my cabin--I just wants to show you." He got
out some dirty papers, and started to hobble forward, wincing with pain.
Mary Taylor stirred in her seat under an involuntary impulse to help,
but Cresswell touched the horse.

"All right, Uncle Jim," he said; "we'll look it over to-morrow."

They turned presently to where they could see the Cresswell oaks waving
lazily in the sunlight and the white gleam of the pillared "Big House."