It was Hannibal Wayne Hazard asleep, with his old spo'tin' rifle across his knees.

His very existence had been forgotten.
"Well, I declare to goodness!" said Crenshaw.
"What are you going to do with him, Mr.John ?" This question nettled Crenshaw.
"I don't know as that is any particular affair of mine," he said.

Now, Mr.Crenshaw, though an excellent man of business, with an unblinking eye on number one, was kindly, on the whole, but there was a Mrs.
Crenshaw, to whom he rendered a strict account of all his deeds, and that sacred institution, the home, was only a tolerable haven when these deeds were nicely calculated to fit with the lady's exactions.
Especially was he aware that Mrs.Crenshaw was averse to children as being inimical to cleanliness and order, oppressive virtues that drove Crenshaw himself in his hours of leisure to the woodshed, where he might spit freely.
"I reckon you'd rather drop a word with yo' missus before you toted him home ?" suggested Yancy, who knew something of the nature of his friend's domestic thraldom.
"A woman ought to be boss in her own house," said Crenshaw.
"Feelin' the truth of that, I've never married, Mr.John; I do as I please and don't have to listen to a passel of opinion.

But I was going to say, what's to hinder me from toting that boy to my home?
There are no calico petticoats hanging up in my closets." "And no closets to hang 'em in, I'll be bound!" rejoined Crenshaw.

"But if you'll take the boy, Bob, you shan't lose by it." Yancy rested a big knotted hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Come, wake up, sonny! Yo' Uncle Bob is ready fo' to strike out home," he said.