For a moment he considered the night, not unaffected by its beauty, then, turning from the window, he moved his bundle and rifle to the foot of the bed, where they would be out of his way, kicked off his trousers, blew out the candle and lay down.

The gossip of the men in the bar ran like a whisper through the house, and with it came frequent bursts of noisy laughter.

Listening for these sounds the boy dozed off.
Yancy had become more and more convinced as the evening passed that Murrell was bent on getting him drunk, and suspicion mounted darkly to his brain.

He felt certain that he was Bladen's agent.

Now, Mr.Yancy took an innocent pride in his ability to "cool off liquor." Perhaps it was some heritage from a well living ancestry that had hardened its head with Port and Madeira in the days when the Yancys owned their acres and their slaves.