tavern and back through the bar to a low-ceilinged room where
Murrell and Slosson were already at table. It was intolerably
hot, and there lingered in the heavy atmosphere of the place
stale and unappetizing odors. Only Murrell attempted
conversation and he was not encouraged; and presently silence
fell on the room except for the rattle of dishes and the buzzing
of flies. When they had finished, the stale odors and the heat
drove them quickly into the bar again, where for a little time
Hannibal sat on Yancy's knee, by the door. Presently he slipped
down and stole out into the yard.

The June night was pulsing with life. Above him bats darted in
short circling flights. In the corn-field and pasture-lot the
fireflies lifted from their day-long sleep, showing pale points
of light in the half darkness, while from some distant pond or
stagnant watercourse came the booming of frogs, presently to
swell into a resonant chorus. These were the summer night sounds
he had known as far back as his memory went.

In the tavern the three men were drinking--Murrell with the idea
that the more Yancy came under the influence of Slosson's corn
whisky the easier his speculation would be managed. Mr. Yancy on
his part believed that if Murrell went to bed reasonably drunk he
would sleep late and give him the opportunity he coveted, to quit
the tavern unobserved at break of day. Gradually the ice of
silence which had held them mute at supper, thawed. At first it
was the broken lazy speech of men who were disposed to quiet,
then the talk became brisk--a steady stream of rather dreary
gossip of horses and lands and negroes, of speculations past and
gone in these great staples.