"Here, take this, then."
Friedrich dropped his partly filled poke into the ready, uplifted hand.
"I had my supper very late to-night," he explained to Mrs. Lance, "and a man outside a party looks so forlorn, don't you think so?"
"Some of 'em deserves hit," returned Mrs. Lance, laconically. "He's one."
Von Rittenheim was fumbling with the halter-strap of his mule, when Pressley appeared beside him out of the shadow of a pine-tree.
"Is that you, Pr-ressley? Do you r-ride or walk?"
"Ah'm walkin'."
"Then will I not mount."
Friedrich slipped the reins over the mule's head, and led him out on to the highway. Pressley walked beside him. The stars shone brightly enough to make visible the open road.
"Are you-all goin' to ask me about the rent, Mr. Baron? Bud 'n me's been pullin' fodder fo' a week. Hit's all ready in the upper field, 'n you c'n take yo' choice any time. They's good bundles, fo' han's to the bundle."