“Want me, Marse Rayburn?”
“Yes, you old scamp; get me a match or I 'll shoot the top of your head off.”
“All right, suh; all right, Marse Rayburn!”
“You ought to know him,” said Miller, with a smile, as the negro hurried into the adjoining office. “His wife cooks for Colonel Barclay; he might tell you if Miss Dolly's going to-night, but I know she is. Frank Hillhouse checked her name off the list, and I heard him say she'd accepted. By-the-way, that fellow will do to watch. I think he and the Colonel are pretty thick.”
“Will you never let up on that?” Alan asked with a flush.
“I don't know that I shall,” laughed Rayburn. “It seems so funny to see you in love, or, rather, to see you think you are.”
“I have never said I was,” said Alan, sharply.
“But you show it so blamed plain,” said Miller.
“Heer 'tis, Marse Rayburn. Marse Trabue said you could have a whole box ef you'd put up wid sulphur ones.”
Miller took the matches from the outstretched hand and tossed a cigar to Alan. “Say, Uncle Ned,” he asked, “do you know that gentleman?” indicating Alan with a nod of his head.