"Ye don't hev any 'quaintance of the Colonel, hev ye?"
"I am not sure. The name is that of a friend of mine whom I have not seen for years. Is he tall and dark with deep gray eyes and—"
"Yes, sir, he air that kind of a man, an' he air fine-lookin' an' handsome an' hes ben all over ever' wher' an' knows all about most ever' thing an' ever' body. Yes, sir, that air Colonel he air a outdacious fine man."
"Yes, yes, he is, no doubt," Moreton responded absently, really quite unaware of what he was saying. His memory was busy with things of the past. Was it possible that he had thus again accidentally stumbled upon Reynolds? Of all the men he ever had met he liked Reynolds best. The very name had its fascination, just as something in the man himself had its mysterious charm, disconnected from any social, moral or intellectual attractiveness.
"Where did Mr. Reynolds come from when he came here?" he demanded, coming suddenly and wholly back to himself and looking at White who had begun to move away.
"The Colonel he kem f'm—kem f'm—f'm—I couldn't say e'zactly wher' the Colonel kem f'm; but som'ers in furren parts, I'm sartaing of thet."
"Six years ago, I think you told me."
"Yes, a leetle the rise of six. The Colonel he kem yer in Septem'er."
"Sings well, the Colonel, does he?"
"Sing! dern, but ye orter heer 'im, strenger. He ken beat a meth'dis' nigger all to striffins. He air a singer for ter mek yer hair stan', the Colonel air."