news of the sale of Mrs. Gaston's place and her tragic death.
"Why, my dear, I sent the money to her on the first Monday I spent in Boston!" he declared to his wife.
"It never reached her."
"Then Dave Haley, the dirty slave driver, has held that letter. I'll see to this." He hurried to the post-office.
"Mr. Haley," he exclaimed,
"I sent a money order letter to Mrs. Gaston from Boston on Monday a week ago."
"Yes, sir," answered Haley in his blandest manner, "it got here the day after the sale."
"You're an infamous liar!" shouted the Preacher.
"Of course! Of course! All Union men are liars to hear rebel traitors talk."
"I'll report you to Washington for this rascality."
"So do, so do. Mor'n likely the President and the Post-Office Department'll be glad to have this information from so great a man."
As the Preacher was leaving the post-office he encountered the Hon. Tim Shelby dressed in the height of fashion, his silk hat shining in the sun, and his eyes rolling with the joy of living. The Preacher stepped squarely in front of Tim.
"Tim Shelby, I hear you have moved into Mrs. Gaston's home and are using her furniture. By whose authority do you dare such insolence?"
"By authority of the law, sir. Mrs. Gaston died intestate. Her effects are in the hands of our County Administrator, Mr. Ezra Perkins. I'll be pleased to receive you, sir, any time you would like to call!" said Tim with a bow.
"I'll call in due time," replied the Preacher, looking Tim straight in the eye.
