"If he gets mad at me for refusing to let him drive my horses when he
owes a bill like that, and won't pay it, he can do so. I obey the law
myself, and I will not let drunkards run my business to suit
themselves."

"He's talking 'bout goin' out to his father's this morning, an' wants
to drive the same rig he had last night."

"I did not know he had my turnout last night."

"Yes, you wusn't heer, an' I knowed he'd make trouble if I refused him."

"That's all right, but don't let him get in any deeper till the old
debt is settled. I'm going over to the hotel a minute."

It was a warm day for October, and the veranda of the hotel was crowded
with loungers, homely men in jeans, slouched hats, and coarse brogans.
Some of them sat on the benches, supported by the square columns, at
the end of the veranda; a few had tilted their chairs against the wall,
and others stood in groups and talked county politics.

They all eyed Westerfelt curiously, and some of them nodded and said
"Howdy do" as he passed. He entered the parlor on the right of the
long hall which ran through the centre of the main wing. A slovenly
negro girl was sweeping the hearth. She leaned her broom against the
cottage organ and went to call her mistress.

A sombre rag carpet was on the floor, and a rug made of brilliant red
and blue scraps of silk lay in front of the fire. On a centre-table,
covered with a red flannel cloth, stood a china vase, filled with