you make out to-night?"

"First rate."

"I 'lowed you wus gittin' on well enough--talked to most all the gals,
I reckon."

"All but one, I think--that Miss Floyd."

"Ah, Toot's gal; mortgaged property, I reckon, or soon will be; she's
as purty as red shoes, though, an' as peert as a cricket."

Westerfelt sat down on the side of his bed and drew off his boots.

"What sort of a man is he, Luke?"

"Bad--bad; no wuss in seven States."

"Fighting man?"

"Yes; an' whiskey an' moonshinin' an' what not; ain't but one good
p'int in 'im, an' that hain't wuth much in time o' peace. I reckon ef
yo're through with it, I'd better take yore candle; sometimes I have to
strike a light 'fore day."

"All right." Westerfelt got into the bed and drew the covers up to his
chin. There was a thumping on the floor beneath the house.

"It's the dogs," explained Luke, at the door. "They are a-flirtin'
the'r tails about. They'll settle down terrectly. What time do you