estoration to those
attractive commercial prospects which had been devised for him.

II

The ordering of events is an intricate process, and to its successful
exploitation a certain degree of sagacious prescience is a prerequisite,
as well as a thorough mastery of the lessons of experience. For a day
or so all went well in the inner consciousness of Nehemiah Yerby. The
letter had satisfied his restless craving for some action toward the
consummation of his ambition, and he had not the foresight to realize
how soon the necessity of following it up would supervene. He first grew
uneasy lest his letter had not reached its destination; then, when the
illimitable field of speculation was thus opened out, he developed an
ingenuity of imagination in projecting possible disaster. Day after
day passed, and he heard naught of his cherished scheme. The
revenuers--craven wretches he deemed them, and he ground his teeth with
rage because of their seeming cowardice in their duty, since their duty
could serve his interests--might not have felt exactly disposed to risk
their lives in these sweet spring days, when perhaps even a man whose
life belongs to the government might be presumed to take some pleasure
in it, by attempting to raid the den of a gang of moonshiners on the
scanty faith of an informer's word, tenuous guaranty at best, and now
couched in an anonymous letter, itself synonym for a lie. Oh, what
fine eulogies rose in his mind upon the manly virtue of courage! How
enthusing it is at all times to contemplate the courage of others!--and
how safe!

Then a revulsion of belief ensued, and he began to fear that they might
already have descended upon their quarry, and with all their captives
have returned to the county town by the road by which they came--nearer
than the route through the crossroads, though far more rugged. Why had
not this possibility before occurred to him! He had so often prefigured
their triumphant advent into the hamlet with all their guarded and
shackled prisoners, the callow Leander in the midst, and his own
gracefully enacted role of virtuous, grief-stricken, pleading
relative, that it seemed a recollection--something that had really
happened--rather than the figment of anticipation. But no word, no
breath of intimation, had ruffled the serenity of the crossroads. The
calm, still, yellow sunshine day by day suffused the land like the
benignities of a dream--almost too good to be true. Every man w