Our host meant work; I could see that by his flashing gray eyes.
"Can't we drink the punch after we return?" asked Mr. Brown.
"Ay, and as much more as you wish," promptly responded our host, rising from the table, an example that we were not slow to follow.
Jackson, who had remained waiting in the room during the interview, now stepped forward, as though aware that his services would be required by his master.
"Bring me my pistols, and oil-cloth coat and cap, and be in a hurry," were the only commands that Mr. Wright issued, and Jackson, who knew the man's impulses, did not delay an instant in executing the order, and with the articles named he brought coats and water-proof hats for us, while to our surprise, he placed upon the table the revolvers belonging to Mr. Brown and myself, cleaned, oiled, and loaded.
"I supposed that you would want them in good condition when you left the farm, so while you were at supper I took the liberty of attending to them," Jackson said, in an apologetic tone, as though fearful that he had exceeded instructions.
"You are deserving of a pardon, and hang me if I don't get you one before six months are passed," cried my friend, enthusiastically, after a slight examination of his weapon, which showed him that it was loaded correctly and capped with great nicety.
The poor fellow started with surprise, and his face flushed with agitation. I saw him turn away, as though ashamed to display his weakness.
"There is no such joyful news for me, sir," he said, at length, in as firm a voice as he could command.
"Don't you believe that story," cried Mr. Brown, heartily. "Plenty of men have received pardons, and they didn't deserve them as much as you. My word for that."