The night was dark, the road was desolate, and I heard the lonesome lowing of the cattle. And now and then a horseman passed me, for I was not eager to get home. At a gate near the road-side some one was standing with a lantern, and just behind me came the rattle of an old vehicle. I turned aside to let it pass, and as I did the light of the lantern fell upon me and a voice asked: "That you, Mr. Hawes?"
"Yes," I answered, turning back into the road and following a buggy.
"I 'lowed so," said a man in the buggy, "for we don't grow many of your size about here. I have heard that they used to, but they don't now. Good many things have happened since that day you come over to see me about the school. I'm Perdue. And, by the way, there's a hundred dollars at my house waitin' for you, and if you don't come after it I'll send it over."
"But you don't owe me anything yet," I replied.
"Yes, the money's there and it's yourn. You couldn't help not bein' in a fix to teach. As I say, it's there for you, and you might as well have it. Sorry for the old folks, tell 'em, but it can't be helped."
On he drove, shouting back that he would send the money the next day, and my protest, if, indeed, I entered one, was weak and faltering, for of all men in that neighborhood I thought that I stood most in need of a hundred dollars.
Now I was nearing the house. The hour was late, but a light was burning in the sitting-room. No one came out, though my horse's hoofs fell hard enough upon the stones to tell them of my coming; and when I got down at the gate I found a horse tied to the fence. Some person, eager to bear evil tidings, had forestalled me. I led my horse to the stable, went to the house, and had just stepped into the passage when Parker, the deputy sheriff, came out of the sitting-room. "I thought you'd go on back to the jail to stay a while, so I came on over to tell them. No trouble, you know—only a short distance out of my way."
All within was silent. I stepped inside. The old man was standing with his back to the fire-place; the old woman sat with her book in her lap and Guinea stood at the window, looking out into the darkness. I sat down in silence, for I knew not what to say, and in silence for a time we remained. The old woman sobbed, clutching more tightly her book, and the old man looked at her sharply and then almost flung himself out of the room. And a few moments later I heard him shouting: "Hike, there, Sam! Hike, there, Bob! There's plenty of light; you've got three lanterns. Hike, there! To a finish, to a finish!"
"Mrs. Jucklin, it is no time for despair," I said, and Guinea turned from the window. "We have already secured a new trial, and the next time it will surely go in our favor. That is the history of nearly all such cases. Be strong just a little while longer. You have been our prop, and now you must not let us fall."
She arose and with an old-time courtesy bowed to me, and Guinea came forward and held out her hand, and she must have seen a sudden light leap into my eyes, for she said: "I am Alf's sister and yours, too."