“Ye-es.”
“Did he say anything as you left?”
“I don't remember anything particular that he SAID.”
“Well, what did he DO?”
“Shot at me from the window!”
“Ah!” said the young editor softly. Nevertheless they walked on for some time in silence. Gradually a white picket fence came into view at right angles with the trail, and a man appeared walking leisurely along what seemed to be the regularly traveled road, beside it. The editor, who had taken matters in his own hands, without speaking to his companion, ran quickly forward and accosted the stranger, briefly stating that he had left the stage-coach with a companion, because it was stopped by high water, and asked, without entering into further details, to be directed to some place where they could pass the night. The man quite as briefly directed him to the house among the trees, which he said was his own, and then leisurely pursued his way along the road. The young editor ran back to his companion, who had halted in the dripping shadow of a sycamore, and recounted his good fortune.
“I didn't,” he added, “say anything about your father. You can make inquiries yourself later.”
“I reckon there won't be much need of that,” returned his companion. “You didn't take much note o' that man, did you?”
“Not much,” said the editor.
“Well, THAT'S MY FATHER, and I reckon that new house must be his.”