“Poor little Gena Filson,” he said at length. “I hope that her life will not be laden with as many dark turns, falls and corners as the stream on which she lives tonight.”
“Gee, gee gee-e-e-ee! Haw, haw,” were the sounds that came to his ears through the night as he looked up. “Gee-haw! Git up, git up. Haw, haw, haw!! Haw—woa-a-a-a-o-oo-a-a-ah!! Here, Cicero, come out here an’ help Cæsar tote these two turns of meal in the house while I go and put up the mare an’ sled. Hurry now,” said the man, driving up into the yard. “Now, hurry, Cicero, fur yo’ ma has got supper ready, fur I can smell the bread a bakin’,” continued the voice.
“Pa, there’s a man come,” declared Cicero excitedly, as he went out to help with the corn-meal.
“A man’s come?” profoundly repeated the father, dropping the bag and straightening up. “Who is it?”
“Don’t know. He’s a settin’ side the house by the gnat-smoke, there in the dark,” said the boy.
“Well, you take the mare and the sled to the barn, Cæsar, an’ I’ll help Cicero with the meal an’ see who it is,” the man finished in an undertone. So saying, he lifted a bag of the fresh corn-meal to his shoulder and made for the open door of the cabin.
“Howdy,” he simply said, as he came up by the door.
“Good evening, sir. You are the master of the house, I suppose?” said Paul Waffington, as he arose and put out his hand.
“I guess so. What might your name be?”
“Waffington, sir. Paul Waffington, of Knoxville. I’m on my way to Blood Camp, and I am anxious to spend the night with you,” he said in inquiring accents.