boy, looking at me and calling out to the devil: 'Dig it deep! We'll bury old Charlie deep'!"
Clayborne finally got him to realize that Dabney was a figure in life, in spite of the chalk face under the red headcloth.
And then Charlie went into a drunken mania of resentment. Dabney was dead—or if he was not dead he ought to be; and he started to the highboy for a dueling pistol. His fury and his drunken curses filled the house. The place belonged to him! He would not divide it.
It was the devil's night. About daybreak the ancient negro got Charlie into bed and the sailor installed in old Thorndike's room, with a fire and all the attentions of a guest.
After that Charlie was strangely quiet. He suffered the intrusion of the sailor with no word. Dabney might have been always in the house for any indication in Charlie's manner. There was peace; but one was impressed that it was a sort of armistice.
Dabney went over the old estate pretty carefully, but he did not interfere with Charlie's possession. He laid no claim that anybody heard of. Charlie seemed to watch him. He kept the drink in hand and he grew silent.
There seemed no overt reason, old Clayborne said, but presently Dabney began to act like a man in fear. He made friends with the dog, a big old bearhound. He got a fowling piece and set it up by the head of his bed, and finally took the dog into
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