“No; I'm serious,” she sweetly said. “If he can't beat you, I don't want him.”
“Zounds! Is that a bargain?” He put his hand on her shoulder, and bent down so that his eyes were on a level with hers.
“Yes,” she replied; “and I'll hold you to it.”
“You promise me?” he insisted.
“A man must go ahead of my papa,” she said, putting her arms about the old gentleman's neck, “or I'll stay by papa.”
He kissed her with atrocious violence. Even the knee-sag of his trousers suggested more than ordinary vigor of feeling.
“Well, it's good-bye, Tom,” he said, pushing her away from him, and letting go a profound bass laugh. “I'll settle him to-morrow.”
“You'll see,” she rejoined. “He may not be so easy to settle.”
He gave her a savage but friendly cuff as they parted.
That evening old Barnaby brought his banjo around to the veranda. Colonel Sommerton was down in town mixing with the “boys,” and doing up his final political chores so that there might be no slip on the morrow. It was near eleven o'clock when he came up the hill and stopped at the gate to hear the song that Barnaby was singing. He supposed that the old negro was all alone. Certainly the captivating voice, with its unkempt melody, and its throbbing, skipping, harum-scarum banjo accompaniment, was all that broke the silence of the place.