it would be under the
name of Garrison. That is, if you were still living. He didn't know
anything about you.

"There was a whole lot of repentance and general misery in the letter.
I don't like to think of it overmuch. But it knocked Cottonton flatter
than stale beer. Honest. I never saw such a time. I'm no good at telling
a yarn, kid. It was something fierce. There was nothing but knots and
knots; all diked up and tangles by the mile. And so I had to step in and
straighten things out. And--and so, kid, I told the major everything;
every scrap of your history, as far as I knew it. All you had told to
me. I had to. Now, don't tell me I kicked in. Say I did right, kid. I
meant to."

"Yes, yes," murmured Garrison blankly. "And--and the major? What--did he
say, Jimmie?"

Drake frowned thoughtfully.

"Say? Well, kid, I only wish I had an uncle like that. I only wish there
were more folks like those Cottonton folks. I do. Say? Why, Lord, kid,
it was one grand hallelujah! Forgive? Say," he finished, thoughtfully
eyeing the white-faced, newly christened Garrison, "what have you ever
done to be loved like that? They were crazy for you. Not a word was said
about your imposition. Not a word. It was all: 'When will he be back?'
'Where is he?' 'Telegraph!' All one great slambang of joy. And me? Well,
I could have had that town for my own. And your aunt? She cried, cried
when she heard all you had been through. Oh, I made a great press-agent,
kid. And the old major--Oh, fuss! I can't tell a yarn nohow," grumbled
Drake, stamping about at great length and vigorously using the lurid
silk handkerchief.

William C. Dagget was silent--the silence of great, overwhelming joy. He
was shivering. "And--and Miss Desha?" he whispered at length.

"Yes--Miss Desha," echoed Drake, planting wide his feet and
contemplating the other's bent head. "Yes, Miss Desha. And why in
blazes did you tell her you were married, eh?" he asked grimly. "Oh,
you thought you were? Oh, yes. And you didn't deny it when you found it
wasn't so? Oh, yes, of course. And it didn't matter whether she ate her
heart out or not? Of course not. Oh, yes, you wanted to be clean, first,
and all that. And she might die in the meantime. You didn't think she
still cared for you? Now, see here, kid, that's a lie and you know it.
It's a lie. When a girl like Miss Desha goes so far as to--Oh, fuss! I
can't tell a yarn. But, see here, kid, I haven't your blood. I own that.
But if I