"But that ain't until about sundown," said Uncle Ben quietly. "I won't
keep ye ez long ez that."

Mr. Ford glanced quickly at Uncle Ben with a rising color. "What do you
know of my engagements?" he said sharply.

"Nothin', Mr. Ford," returned Uncle Ben simply; "but hevin' bin layin'
round, lookin' for ye here and at the hotel for four or five days allus
about that time and not findin' you, I rather kalkilated you might hev
suthin' reg'lar on hand."

There was certainly nothing in his face or manner to indicate the least
evasion or deceit, or indeed anything but his usual naivete, perhaps a
little perturbed and preoccupied by what he was going to say. "I had an
idea of writin' you a letter," he continued, "kinder combinin' practice
and confidential information, you know. To be square with you, Mr. Ford,
in pint o' fact, I've got it HERE. But ez it don't seem to entirely gibe
with the facts, and leaves a heap o' things onsaid and onseen, perhaps
it's jest ez wall ez I read it to you myself--putten' in a word here and
there, and explainin' it gin'rally. Do you sabe?"

The master nodded, and Uncle Ben drew from his desk a rude portfolio
made from the two covers of a dilapidated atlas, and took from between
them a piece of blotting-paper, which through inordinate application
had acquired the color and consistency of a slate, and a few pages
of copy-book paper, that to the casual glance looked like sheets
of exceedingly difficult music. Surveying them with a blending of
chirographic pride, orthographic doubt, and the bashful consciousness of
a literary amateur, he traced each line with a forefinger inked to the
second joint, and slowly read aloud as follows:--