“He doesn't call it mooning, oh, no,” scoffed Champe.
“Oh, there's nothing half so sweet in life,” sang Morson, striking an attitude that almost threw him off his horse.
“Shut up, Morson,” commanded Diggs, “you ought to be thankful if you had enough sense left to moon with.”
“Sense, who wants sense?” inquired Morson, on the point of tears. “I have heart, sir.”
“Then keep it bottled up,” rejoined Champe, coolly, as they turned into the drive at Chericoke.
In Dan's room they found Big Abel stretched before the fire asleep; and as the young men came in, he sat up and rubbed his eyes.
“Hi! young Marsters, hit's ter-morrow!” he exclaimed.
“To-morrow! I wish it were to-morrow,” responded Dan, cheerfully. “The fire makes my head spin like a top. Here, come and pull off my coat, Big Abel, or I'll have to go to bed with my clothes on.”
Big Abel pulled off the coat and brushed it carefully; then he held out his hand for Champe's.
“I hope dis yer coat ain' gwine lose hit's set 'fo' hit gits ter me,” he muttered as he hung them up. “Seems like you don' teck no cyar yo' clothes, nohow, Marse Dan. I'se de wuss dress somebody dis yer side er de po' w'ite trash. Wat's de use er bein' de quality ef'n you ain' got de close?”