The Judge's eye twinkled merrily, and Mrs. Claiborne laughingly exclaimed, "Why, you'd make quite an artist. You certainly have an eye for colour."
Thereupon Judge Vardeman suggested to Mrs. Claiborne that she begin at the beginning, and place Mr. Sanders in possession of all the facts necessary to the successful carrying out of the plan she had in view. It was a plan, the Judge went on to say, that he did not wholly indorse, bordering, as it did, on frivolity, but as the lady was determined on it, he would not advise against it, as the results bade fair to be harmless.
It must have been quite a story the lady had to tell Mr. Sanders, for the sun was nearly down when he came from the house; and it must have been somewhat amusing, too, for he came down the steps laughing heartily. When he reached the sidewalk, he paused, looked back at the closed door, shook his head, and threw up his hands, exclaiming to himself, "Bless Katy! I'm powerful glad I ain't got no 'oman on my trail. 'Specially one like her. Be jigged ef she don't shake this old town up!"
He heard voices behind him, and turned to see Eugenia Claiborne and Paul Tomlin walking slowly along, engaged in a very engrossing conversation. Mr. Sanders looked at the couple long enough to make sure that he was not mistaken as to their identity, and then he went on his way.
He had intended to go straight home, but, yielding to a sudden whim or impulse, he went to the tavern instead. This old tavern, at a certain hour of the day, was the resort of all the men, old and young, who desired to indulge in idle gossip, or hear the latest news that might be brought by some stray traveller, or commercial agent, or cotton-buyer from Malvern. For years, Mr. Woodruff, the proprietor—he had come from Vermont in the forties, as a school-teacher—complained that the hospitality of the citizens was enough to ruin any public-house that had no gold mine to draw upon. But, after the war, the tide, such as it was, turned in his favour, and by the early part of 1868, he was beginning to profit by what he called "a pretty good line of custom," and there were days in the busy season when he was hard put to it to accommodate his guests in the way he desired.
During the spring and summer months, there was no pleasanter place than the long, low veranda of Mr. Woodruff's tavern, and it was very popular with those who had an idle hour at their disposal. This veranda was much patronised by Mr. Silas Tomlin, who, after the death of his wife, had no home-life worthy of the name. Silas was not socially inclined; he took no part in the gossip and tittle-tattle that flowed up and down the veranda. The most interesting bit of news never caused him to turn his head, and the raciest anecdote failed to bring a smile to his face. Nevertheless, nothing seemed to please him better than to draw a chair some distance away from the group of loungers, yet not out of ear-shot, lean back against one of the supporting pillars, close his eyes and listen to all that was said, or dream his own dreams, such as they might be.
Mr. Sanders was well aware of Silas Tomlin's tavern habits, and this was what induced him to turn his feet in that direction. He expected to find Silas there at this particular hour and he was not disappointed. Silas was sitting aloof from the crowd, his chair leaning against one of the columns, his legs crossed, his eyes closed, and his hands folded in his lap. But for an occasional nervous movement of his thin lips, and the twitching of his thumbs, he might have served as a model for a statue of Repose. As a matter of fact, all his faculties were alert.
The crowd of loungers was somewhat larger than usual, having been augmented during the day by three commercial agents and a couple of cotton-buyers. Lawyer Tidwell was taking advantage of the occasion to expound and explain several very delicate and intricate constitutional problems. Mr. Tidwell was a very able man in some respects, and he was a very good talker, although he wanted to do all the talking himself. He lowered his voice slightly, as he saw Mr. Sanders, but kept on with his exposition of our organic law.
"Hello, Mr. Sanders!" said one of the cotton-buyers, taking advantage of a momentary pause in Mr. Tidwell's monologue; "how are you getting on these days?"
"Well, I was gittin' on right peart tell to-day, but this mornin' I struck a job that's made me weak an' w'ary."