The shouts that were borne to us, as rescuers began to troop across the fields, drove our hearts down into our boots.
The return to the house was widely different from the triumph of the out-going in the morning. It was a dejected cortege that wended its toilsome way up the hill. Uncle Limpy-Jack basely deserted us after getting the promise of our gold dollars, declaring that he "told dem boys dat huntin' ole hyahs warn' no business for chillern!"
We knew that we had to "face the condign." There was no maudlin sentiment in that region. Solomon was truly believed to have been the wisest of men, and at least one of his decrees was still acted on in that pious community.
The black boys were shipped off to their mammies and I fear received their full share of "the condign."
We were ushered solemnly into the house and were marched upstairs to meditate on our enormities.
We could hear the debate going on below, and now and then a gentle voice took up the cause. Presently a slow step mounted the stair and the door opened. It was a grave senior—owner of Don. We knew that we were gone.
"Boys, did n't you know better than that?"
Three culprits looked at each other sideways and remained speechless. We were trying to figure out which was the more politic answer.
"Now, this is Christmas——"
"A time of peace and good-will," said Met under his breath, but loud enough to be heard.