unspeakable. Perchance he would leave me in Charlestown.

At nightfall we came into a settlement called the Waxhaws. And there
being no tavern there, and the mare being very jaded and the roads heavy,
we cast about for a place to sleep. The sunlight slanting over the pine
forest glistened on the pools in the wet fields. And it so chanced that
splashing across these, swinging a milk-pail over his head, shouting at
the top of his voice, was a red-headed lad of my own age. My father
hailed him, and he came running towards us, still shouting, and vaulted
the rails. He stood before us, eying me with a most mischievous look in
his blue eyes, and dabbling in the red mud with his toes. I remember I
thought him a queer-looking boy. He was lanky, and he had a very long
face under his tousled hair.

My father asked him where he could spend the night.

"Wal," said the boy, "I reckon Uncle Crawford might take you in. And
again he mightn't."

He ran ahead, still swinging the pail. And we, following, came at length
to a comfortable-looking farmhouse. As we stopped at the doorway a
stout, motherly woman filled it. She held her knitting in her hand.

"You Andy!" she cried, "have you fetched the milk?"

Andy tried to look repentant.

"I declare I'll tan you," said the lady. "Git out this instant. What
rascality have you been in?"