honey-chile! Ah's go' to pull you 'roun in de side yod fo' to meet 'em."

The small wagon creaked away, the chant resuming as it went.

Mr. Dowden jumped out of the phaeton with a wave of his hand to the
driver, Beasley himself, who clucked to the horse and drove through his
open carriage-gates and down the drive on the other side of the house,
where he was lost to my view.

Dowden, entering our own gate, nodded in a friendly fashion to me, and I
advanced to meet him.

"Some day I want to take you over next door," he said, cordially, as I
came up. "You ought to know Beasley, especially as I hear you're doing
some political reporting. Dave Beasley's going to be the next governor
of this state, you know." He laughed, offered me a cigar, and we sat
down together on the front steps.

"From all I hear," I rejoined, "YOU ought to know who'll get it." (It
was said in town that Dowden would "come pretty near having the
nomination in his pocket.")

"I expect you thought I shifted the subject pretty briskly the other
day?" He glanced at me quizzically from under the brim of his black felt
hat. "I meant to tell you about that, but the opportunity didn't occur.
You see--"

"I understand," I interrupted. "I've heard the story. You thought it
might be embarrassing to Miss Apperthwaite."