His father looked at him keenly.
“Well, you go ahead—and as soon as you’ve got your filly safe, we’ll take up t’other horse—time enough. Thar’s the bridle.” He touched the notes on the table and winked at his son.
Dr. Still, armed with the assurance which the possession of Dr. Cary’s notes gave, drove over to Birdwood the very next evening in a double buggy. He was met by Dr. Cary, who treated him with his usual graciousness, and who so promptly assumed that the visit was merely a professional one that the caller never found the opportunity to undeceive him.
When Washington Still arrived at home that night his father was watching for him with eagerness. He met him as the buggy drove up into the yard; but Wash’s face was sphinx-like. It was not until nearly bedtime, when the father had reinforced his courage with several drinks of whiskey, that he got courage to open the subject directly.
“Well, what news?” he asked, with an attempt at joviality.
“None,” said Wash, shortly.
“How’d you come out?”
“Same way I went in.” This was not encouraging, but another glass added to Mr. Still’s spirit.
“How was she lookin’?”
“Didn’t see her.—Didn’t see anybody but the old Doctor; never do see anybody but him—and the old nigger that opens the door. He thought I’d come over to consult him about that sick nigger down at the mill, so I let him think so. I wish the d—d nigger would die!”