you; he
looks spry, an' he ain't no sneak--I'll swar to that on the stan'."

"Well, I tell you, square," responded Teague, dryly, "I hain't never
seed people too flirty to pester yuther folks; an' I reckon you ain't
nuther, is you?"

"No," said Squire Pleasants, his experience appealed to instead of his
judgment; "no, I ain't, that's a fact; but some folks youer bleege to
take on trus'."

Further comment on the part of Poteet and the others was arrested by
the appearance of Woodward, who came out of his room, walked rapidly
down the narrow hallway, and out upon the piazza. He was bare-headed,
his bands were full of papers, and he had the air of a man of business.
The younger men who had gathered around Squire Pleasants and Teague
Poteet fell back loungingly as Woodward came forward with just the
faintest perplexed smile.

"Judge Pleasants," he said, "I'm terribly mixed up, and I'll have to
ask you to unmix me."

The squire cleared his throat, adjusted his spectacles, and
straightened himself in his chair. The title of Judge, and the easy air
of deference with which it was bestowed, gave him an entirely new idea
of his own importance. He frowned judicially as he laid his hand upon
the papers.

"Well, sir," said he, "I'm gittin' ole, an' I reckon I ain't much
nohow; I'm sorter like the grey colt that tried to climb in the
shuck-pen--I'm weak, but willin'. Ef you'll jest whirl in an' make
indication whar'in I can he'p, I'll do the best I kin."

"I've come up here to look after a lot of land," said Woodward. "It is
described here as lot No. 18, 376th district, Georgia Militia, part of
land lot No. 11, in Tugaloo, formerly Towaliga County. Here is a plat
of Hog Mountain, but somehow I can't locate the lot."

The squire took the papers and began to examine them with painful
particularity.

"That 'ar lot," said Teague Poteet, after a while, "is the ole Mathis
lot. The line runs right acrost my simblin' patch, an' backs up ag'in'
my hoss-stable."

"Tooby shore--tooby shore!" exclaimed the squire. "Tut-tut! What am I
doin'? My mind is drappin' loose like seed-ticks from a shumake bush.
Tooby shore, it's the Mathis lot. Mr. Wooderd, Mr. Poteet--Mr. Poteet,
Mr. Wooderd; lem me make you interduced, gents."

Mr. Woodward shook hands gracefully and cordially--Poteet awkwardly and
a trifle suspiciously.

"It seems to me, Mr. Poteet," said Woodward, "that I have teen your
name in the papers somewhere."

"Likely," re