ed him as a shirt might fit a
bean pole. The legs of his pantaloons were thrust inside of his boots,
and he wore a fuzzy woollen hat with battered crown and a broad flapping
brim. He looked the very picture of an ex-overseer under a cloud, or an
itinerant sporting man, anxious for something to turn up.

I declined the proffered drink, but the company rose and approached the
counter, while the young planter bade the bartender, who had just
reentered, 'trot out the consolation.'

'Down with the pewter, then, Mr. Gaston,' said the liquor vender. 'No
pay, no drinks, is the rule in this yere shanty.'

The young man tossed him a half-eagle. His companions proceeded to
imbibe a variety of compounds, while he poured out nearly a glass full
of raw whiskey, and drank it down at a swallow. As he replaced the glass
on the counter, a slatternly negro woman thrust her head in at the
doorway, saying:

'Dar's a 'ooman heah; a wite 'ooman, dat am 'ticler anxyus fur de honor
of Mister Mulock's 'quaintance. She'm in de sittin' room.'

'Thar's a call fur you, Bony,' said the young planter to the story
teller; 'some young woman with designs on your landed possessions; ha!
ha!'

Without replying, the other followed the serving woman from the room. He
was the absconding polygamist for whom the tobacco-chewing female had
ventured all the way from Chalk-Leod.

'Is supper ready, sir?' I asked of the bartender.

'Supper? I reckon so. Ye'd better go and see,' was the civil reply.

'Where's the dining room?'

'Over thar--'tother side the hall.'

Passing out of the room, I met Preston, and we proceeded together to the
supper table. When we were seated, I remarked:

'By the way, I have just seen the husband of our stage coach
acquaintance. He's a rum-looking customer.'

'Yes, I suppose he has taken to drinking again. The whipping and the
loss of Phylly have probably worked on him.'

'You don't mean to say _he_ is Phylly's husband?'

'Yes, didn't I tell you?'

'No. Two wives under one roof! Well, that's more than most white men can
afford.'

'That's a fact. It's an awkward business; what had better be done?'

'Done? Why, let him go. You'll be well rid of him. He's a worthless
fellow, or nature dosn't write English. I read 'scoundrel' all over his
face.'

'He has a bad nature; but Phylly's influence on him is good, and she
loves him.'

'_Loves_ him! Well, there's no accounting for tastes.'

'That's true,' replied the Squire;