Westerfelt drew back, smiling.  He did not really dislike Bates, and he attributed his present proposition to the desire to advance in his profession, but he was far from falling into the present proposal.

“I haven’t the slightest intention of prosecuting, Mr. Bates,” he declared, firmly.  “In fact, nothing could persuade me to take a single step in that direction.”

The face of the lawyer fell.

“Oh, that’s the way you feel.  Well,” scratching his chin, “I don’t know as it makes much difference one way or the other, but I hope, Mr. Westerfelt, that you won’t mention what I said.  These fellers are the very devil about boycottin’ people.”

“It shall go no further,” answered Westerfelt, and together they walked to the front.  A few minutes after Bates had gone across the street to his office, old Hunter slouched into the stable and stood before Westerfelt.  He jerked his thumb over his shoulder in Bates’s direction and grinned uneasily.  Then he spat, and delivered himself of this: 

“I’ll bet I kin make a powerful good guess at what that feller wanted to see you about.”

Westerfelt smiled good-naturedly.  He felt irresistibly drawn towards the old man.

“Do you think you could, Mr. Hunter?”

“I’d bet a ten-acre lot agin a ginger-cake.  An’ I’ll bet some’n else; I’ll bet ten dollars ’gin a nickel that Cap.  Westerfelt’s boy ain’t a-gwine to harbor no ill-will agin one o’ his daddy’s old friends that wus actin’ the damn fool ‘fore he knowed who he wus monkeyin’ with.”

“You’d win on that bet, Mr. Hunter,” and Westerfelt gave the old man his hand.

Hunter’s shook as with palsy as he grasped and held it.  Tears rose in his eyes.  “Lord, Lord A’mighty!” he said, “when I reecolect that the young chap ’at stood up thar so spunky all by hisse’f last night, in that moonlight an’ sassed all of us to our teeth was Cap.  Westerfelt’s boy—­by God, I jest want some hound dog to come an’ take my place on God’s earth—­so I do.  I want some able-bodied cornfield nigger to wear a hickory-withe out on my bare back.”  Then he dropped Westerfelt’s hand and strode away.

Chapter XV

Westerfelt accepted the urgent invitation of the Bradleys to live in their house awhile.  For the first week his wound gave him pain and his appetite failed him, which was due as much, perhaps, to mental as bodily trouble, for Harriet Floyd was on his mind constantly.  Thoroughly disgusted with himself for having in the past treated the hearts of women lightly, he now drew the rein of honor tightly when he thought of his position and hers.  He told himself he would never go to see her again till he had made up his mind to forget her love for Wambush and every rasping fact pertaining to it, and honorably ask her to be his wife.  There were moments in which he wondered if she were not, on her part, trying to forget him, and occasionally,