CHAPTER IX
AT THE UNPAINTED HOUSE
Brent sat down and took a deep breath, as men do when they have narrowly escaped disaster. He saw Zack on a mule, heading for the gate, and called him.
"Uncle Zack," he whispered, when the old darky had come hat in hand up the steps, "rustle me another julep!"
"Lawd, Marse Brent," he cast a suspicious glance toward the front hall, "I'se gotter go clar to Marse Bob's an' cut his haih!" But, translating the look, Brent gave a low laugh, saying:
"She won't be out again for awhile. Hustle, Zack! I've just been frozen to death!"
The old man thrust the empty goblet under his coat and quickly returned with another, invitingly frosted.
"Ain' she turr'ble sometimes, Marse Brent?" he asked in a confidential undertone. "She done tol' me yisterday dat I'se gwine git th'owed clar to de bottom of hell, an' den criss-cross all over de coals, ef I don' stop makin' juleps for Marse John an' you! Do you reckon I'se gwine git all dat misery?"
"Betcher life," Brent answered, taking a few swallows and leaning back with a sigh of satisfaction. "That's all coming to you; but d'you want to know what the Colonel and I've decided to do if you quit making us juleps, you old devil?"
Zack grinned.