On Board the Chieftain.
Dear Uncle,—This afternoon, while hunting in the Vine Ridge woods, Phil’s gun went off and wounded him in the side. I was at my wit’s end what to do, when I heard the Chieftain blow up the river; so I tore off to the levee, where I was lucky enough to succeed in attracting Captain Smith’s attention, who sent off a boat, and we managed to get Phil on board. I wanted Smith to put back to our landing, but he thought the current too strong; and on the whole, I believe it is better for Phil to keep on to Hilton, as it would be impossible to get a doctor at home in this high water. Phil’s hurt is not very serious, I hope.
Your dutiful nephew,
Harry Brace.
On the day succeeding Harry’s homecoming, he entered the room designated the “study,” in which the Squire was usually to be found when indoors.
The room probably owed the name of “study” to a set of Farmer’s Magazines which, in all the dignity of expensive bindings, divided the shelf with a rather damaged edition of “The Turf Register,” a “Farrier’s Manual,” a brace of antiquated medical works, and a stack of newspapers. Fishing tackle, a cupping apparatus, a set of engineering instruments, half a dozen ears of extra fine seed corn, medicine scales, and a huge cotton stock filled the rest of the bookcase.
The Squire, seated before a blazing fire, in the lazy comforts of convalescence, with pipe and tobacco at his elbow, presented a not unenviable picture when contrasted with the wintry grayness outside.
Harry, who had been greatly touched by the old hog-feeder’s affectionate fidelity, now sought his uncle in order to beg that as a recompense he might be given his freedom.
“Freedom!” exclaimed the Squire; “why, confound it, my dear boy, what would he do with freedom, if he had it?”