Once in his room, Gabriel looked about for the book he had been reading during the afternoon. It was his habit to read a quarter of an hour at least—sometimes longer—before going to bed. But the book was not to be found. This was surprising until he remembered that he had not entered his bed-room since the dinner-hour; and then it suddenly dawned on his mind that he had left the book at the foot of the big poplar.
Well! that was a pretty come-off for a young man who was inclined to be proud of his careful and systematic methods. And the book was a borrowed one, and very valuable—one of the early editions of Franklin's autobiography, bound in leather. What would Meriwether Clopton think, if, through Gabriel's carelessness, the dampness and the dew had injured the volume, which, after Horace and Virgil, was one of Mr. Clopton's favourites?
There was but one thing to be done, and that Gabriel was prompt to do. He went softly downstairs, so as not to disturb his grandmother, and made his way to the big poplar, where he was fortunate enough to find the book. Thanks to the sheltering arms of the tree, and the leaf-covered ground, the volume had sustained no damage.
As Gabriel recovered the book, and while he was examining it, he heard a chorus of whistlers coming along the road. Mingled with the whistling chorus were the various sounds made by a waggon drawn by horses. Gabriel judged that the waggon contained the young men who had been to the dance at the Samples plantation, and in this his judgment turned out to be correct. The young men were in a double-seated spring waggon, drawn by two horses. They drew up in response to Gabriel's holla, and he climbed into the waggon.
"Well, what in the name of the seven stars are you doing out here in the woods at this time of night?" cried Jesse Tidwell, and he laughed with humourous scorn when Gabriel told him.
"But the book belongs to Bethune's grandfather," explained Gabriel. "It might have been ruined by rain, or by the damp night-air, if left out until morning. If it had been my own book, perhaps I'd have trusted to luck."
"You missed it to-night, Tolliver," said Francis Bethune. "Feel Samples"—his name was Felix—"was considerably put out because you didn't come. And the girls—Tolliver, when did you get acquainted with them? They all know you. Nelly Kendrick tossed her head and turned up her nose, and said that a dance wasn't a dance unless Mr. Tolliver was present. Tidwell, who was the red-headed girl that raved so about Tolliver's curls?"
"Oh, yes!" exclaimed Jesse Tidwell, "that was Amy Rowland. If she wasn't the belle of the ball, I'll never want any more money in this world. It's no use for Gabriel to blow his horn, when he has all the girls in that part of the country to blow it for him. My son, when and where did you come to know all these young ladies?"
"Why, I used to go out there to church with Mr. Sanders, and sometimes with Mrs. Absalom. There are some fine people in that settlement."
"Fine!" exclaimed Jesse Tidwell, with real enthusiasm; "why, split silk is as coarse as gunny-bagging by the side of those girls. I told 'em I was coming back. 'You must!' they declared, 'and be sure and bring Mr. Tolliver!'" Young Tidwell mimicked a girl's voice with such ridiculous completeness that his companions shouted with laughter. "There's another thing you missed, Tolliver," he went on. "Feel Samples has a cow that gives apple-brandy, and old Burrel Bohannon, the one-legged fiddler, must have milked her dry, for along about half-past ten he kind of rolled his eyes, and fetched a gasp, and wobbled out of his chair, and lay on the floor just as if he was stone dead."