“Was Mr. Blandford very mad with him?” inquired the lad.
“Yes, I was,” that gentleman admitted, laughing a little and looking uncomfortable. “He had me arrested once, and tried to make me shovel sand into a barrel that was open at both ends. What do you think of that?”
“I think it must have been very funny,” said Joe, laughing heartily.
“I reckon it was funny,” observed Mr. Bland-ford, grimly, “but the rascal wouldn’t have enjoyed the fun if it hadn’t been for this big fat man here.”
“You are not referring to me, I hope,” said Mr. Henderson, so seriously that the rest burst out laughing.
“Come, now,” Mr. Deometari suggested. “Let’s let in some fresh air on poor John Pruitt.”
There was nothing more to be done after Mr. Pruitt was released from the guard-house, and so Joe mounted his horse and cantered off to the plantation. Butterfly was very glad to have his head turned in that direction, and he went so swiftly that in the course of an hour Joe was at home and in bed. His mind was so full of what he had seen and heard that he went over it all in his slumber. Mr. Deometari, chunky as he was, took the place of Porthos, the big musketeer; Mr. Blandford was D’Artagnan; Mr. Henderson was the sleek and slender one (Aramis) whose name Joe could not remember in his dreams; and even Mr. Pruitt grew into a romantic figure.