They passed from room to room securing doors and windows, and at
last stepped out upon the back porch.

"Hullo!" said Yancy, pointing.

There on a bench by the kitchen door was a small figure. It was
Hannibal Wayne Hazard asleep, with his old spo'tin' rifle across
his knees. His very existence had been forgotten.

"Well, I declare to goodness!" said Crenshaw.

"What are you going to do with him, Mr. John?"

This question nettled Crenshaw.

"I don't know as that is any particular affair of mine," he said.
Now, Mr. Crenshaw, though an excellent man of business, with an
unblinking eye on number one, was kindly, on the whole, but there
was a Mrs. Crenshaw, to whom he rendered a strict account of all
his deeds, and that sacred institution, the home, was only a
tolerable haven when these deeds were nicely calculated to fit
with the lady's exactions. Especially was he aware that Mrs.
Crenshaw was averse to children as being inimical to cleanliness
and order, oppressive virtues that drove Crenshaw himself in his
hours of leisure to the woodshed, where he might spit freely.

"I reckon you'd rather drop a word with yo' missus before you
toted him home?" suggested Yancy, who knew something of the
nature of his friend's domestic thraldom.