A quizzical look dawned in the old negro's eyes, and then he gave a resounding guffaw and shook all over.
“I reckon I know his hoss, Marse Rayburn,” he tittered.
“That's a good one on you, Alan,” laughed Miller. “He knows your 'hoss.'I 'll have to spring that on you when I see you two together.”
As the negro left the office Mr. Trabue leaned in the doorway, holding his battered silk hat in his hand and mopping his perspiring face.
He nodded to Alan, and said to Miller: “Do you want to write?”
“Not any more for you, thanks,” said Miller. “I have the back-ache now from those depositions I made out for you yesterday.”
“Oh, I don't mean that,” the old lawyer assured him, “but I had to borrow yore ink just now, and seein' you at yore desk I thought you might need it.”
“Oh, if I do,” jested Miller, “I can buy another bottle at the book-store. They pay me a commission on the ink I furnish the row. They let me have it cheap by the case. What stumps me is that you looked in to see if I needed it. You are breaking the rule, Mr. Trabue. They generally make me hunt for my office furniture when I need it. They've borrowed everything I have except my iron safe. Their ignorance of the combination, its weight, and their confirmed laziness is all that saved it.”
When the old lawyer had gone the two friends sat and smoked in silence for several minutes. Alan was studying Miller's face. Something told him that the news of his father's disaster had reached him, and that Miller was going to speak of it. He was not mistaken, for the lawyer soon broached the subject.
“I've been intending to ride out to see you almost every day this week,” he said, “but business has always prevented my leaving town.”