The raft drifted on into the day's heat; and when at last Yancy awoke, it was to find Henry and Keppel seated beside him, each solacing him with a small moist hand, while they regarded him out of the serious unblinking eyes of childhood.

“Howdy!” said he, smiling up at them.

“Howdy!” they answered, a sociable grin puckering their freckled faces.

“Do you find yo'self pretty well, sir?” inquired Keppel.

“I find myself pretty weak,” replied Yancy.

“Me and Kep has been watching fo' to keep the flies from stinging you,” explained Henry.

“We-all takes turns doin' that,” Keppel added.

“Well, and how many of you-all are there?” asked Yancy.

“There's six of we-uns and the baby.”

They covertly examined this big bearded man who had lost his nevvy, and almost his life. They had overheard their father and mother discuss his plans and knew when he was recovered from his wounds if he did not speedily meet up with his nevvy at a place called Memphis, he was going back to Lincoln County, which was near where they came from, to have the hide off a gentleman of the name of Slosson. They imagined the gentleman named Slosson would find the operation excessively disagreeable; and that Yancy should be recuperating for so unique an enterprise invested him with a romantic interest. Henry squirmed closer to the recumbent figure on the bed.

“Me and Kep would like mighty well to know how you-all are goin' to strip the hide offen to that gentleman's back,” he observed.

Yancy instantly surmised that the reference was to Slosson.

“I reckon I'll feel obliged to just naturally skin him,” he explained.

“Sho', will he let you do that?” they demanded.

“He won't be consulted none. And his hide will come off easy once I get hold of him by the scruff of the neck.” Yancy's speech was gentle and his lips smiling, but he meant a fair share of what he said.

“Sho', is that the way you do it?” And round-eyed they gazed down on this fascinating stranger.

“I may have to touch him up with a tickler,” continued Yancy, who did not wish to prove disappointing. “I reckon you-all know what a tickler is?”

They nodded.

“What if Mr. Slosson totes a tickler, too?” asked Keppel insinuatingly. This opened an inviting field for conjecture.

“That won't make no manner of difference. Why? Because it's a powerful drawback fo' a man to know he's in the wrong, just as it's a heap in yo' favor to know you're in the right.”

“My father's got a tickler; I seen it often,” vouchsafed Henry.

“It's a foot long, with a buck horn handle. Gee whiz!—he keeps it keen; but he never uses it on no humans,” said Keppel.

“Of course he don't; he's a high-spirited, right-actin' gentleman. But what do you reckon he'd feel obliged to do if a body stole one of you-all?” inquired Yancy.

“Whoop! He'd carve 'em deep!” cried Keppel.

At this moment Mrs. Cavendish appeared, bringing Yancy's breakfast. In her wake came Connie with the baby, and the three little brothers who were to be accorded the cherished privilege of seeing the poor gentleman eat.

“You got a nice little family, ma'am,” said Yancy.

“Well, I reckon nobody complains mo' about their children than me, but I reckon nobody gets mo' comfort out of their children either. I hope you-all are a-goin' to be able to eat, you ain't had much nourishment. La, does yo' shoulder pain you like that? Want I should feed you?”

“I am sorry, ma'am, but I reckon you'll have to,” Yancy spoke regretfully. “I expect I been a passel of bother to you.”

“No, you ain't. Here's Dick to see how you make out with the chicken,” Polly added, as Cavendish presented himself at the opening that did duty as a door.

“This looks like bein' alive, stranger,” he commented genially. He surveyed the group of which Yancy was the center. “If them children gets too numerous, just throw 'em out.”

“You-all ain't told me yo' name yet?” said Yancy.

“It's Cavendish. Richard Keppel Cavendish, to get it all off my mind at a mouthful. And this lady's Mrs. Cavendish.”

“My name's Yancy—Bob Yancy.”

Mr. Cavendish exchanged glances with Mrs. Cavendish. By a nod of her dimpled chin the lady seemed to urge some more extended confidence on his part. Chills and Fever seated himself at the foot of Yancy's bed.

“Stranger, what I'm a-goin' to tell you, you'll take as bein' said man to man,” he began, with the impressive air of one who had a secret of great moment to impart; and Yancy hastened to assure him that whatever passed between them, his lips should be sealed. “It ain't really that, but I don't wish to appear proud afo' no man's, eyes. First, I want to ask you, did you ever hear tell of titles?”

Polly and the children hung breathlessly on Mr. Yancy's reply.

“I certainly have,” he rejoined promptly. “Back in No'th Carolina we went by the chimneys.”

“Chimneys? What's chimneys got to do with titles, Mr. Yancy?” asked Polly, while her husband appeared profoundly mystified.

“A whole lot, ma'am. If a man had two chimneys to his house we always called him Colonel, if there was four chimneys we called him General.”

“La!” cried Polly, smiling and showing a number of new dimples. “Dick don't mean militia titles, Mr. Yancy.”

“Them's the only ones I know anything of,” confessed Yancy.

“Ever hear tell of lords?” inquired Chills and Fever, tilting his head on one side.

“No.” And Yancy was quick to notice the look of disappointment on the faces of his new friends. He felt that for some reason, which was by no means clear to him, he had lost caste.

“Are you ever heard of royalty?” and Cavendish fixed the invalid's wandering glance.

“You mean kings?”

“I shore do.”

Yancy regarded him reflectively and made a mighty mental effort.

“There's them Bible kings—” he ventured at length.

Mr. Cavendish shook his head.

“Them's sacred kings. Are you familiar with any of the profane kings, Mr. Yancy?”

“Well, taking them as they come, them Bible kings seemed to average pretty profane.” Yancy was disposed to defend this point.

“You must a heard of the kings of England. Sho', wa'n't any of yo' folks in the war agin' him?”

“I'd plumb forgot, why my daddy fit all through that war!” exclaimed Yancy. The Cavendishes were immensely relieved. Polly beamed on the invalid, and the children hunched closer. Six pairs of eager lips were trembling on the verge of speech.

“Now you-all keep still,” said Cavendish. “I want Mr. Yancy should get the straight of this here! The various orders of royalty are kings, dukes, earls and lords. Earls is the third from the top of the heap, but lords ain't no slouch; it's a right neat little title, and them that has it can turn round in most any company.”

“Dick had ought to know, fo' he's an earl himself,” cried Polly exultantly, unable to restrain herself any longer, while a mutter came from the six little Cavendishes who had been wonderfully silent for them.

“Sho', Richard Keppel Cavendish, Earl of Lambeth! 'Sho', that was what he was! Sho'!” and some transient feeling of awe stamped itself upon their small faces as they viewed the long and limber figure of their parent.

“Is that mo' than a Colonel?” Yancy risked the question hesitatingly, but he felt that speech was expected from him.

“Yes,” said the possessor of the title.

“Would a General lay it over you any?”

“No, sir, he wouldn't.”

Yancy gazed respectfully but uncertainly at Chills and Fever.

“Then all I got to say is that I've traveled considerably, mostly between Scratch Hill and Balaam's Cross Roads, meeting with all kinds of folks; but I never seen an earl afo. I take it they are some scarce.”

“They are. I don't reckon there's another one but me in the whole United States.”

“Think of that!” gasped Yancy.

“We ain't nothin' fo' style, it bein' my opinion that where a man's a born gentleman he's got a heap of reason fo' to be grateful but none to brag,” said Cavendish.

“Dick's kind of titles are like having red hair and squint eyes. Once they get into a family they stick,” explained Polly.

“I've noticed that, 'specially about squint eyes.” Yancy was glad to plant his feet on familiar ground.

“These here titles go to the eldest son. He begins by bein' a viscount,” continued Chills and Fever. He wished Yancy to know the full measure of their splendor.

“And their wives are ladies-ain't they, Dick?”

Cavendish nodded.

“Anybody with half an eye would know you was a lady, ma'am,” said Yancy.

“Kep here is an Honorable, same as a senator or a congressman,” Cavendish went on.

“At his age, too!” commented Yancy.

“And my daughter's the Lady Constance,” said Polly.

“Havin' such a mother she ain't no choice,” observed Yancy, with an air of gentle deference.

“Dick's got the family, Mr. Yancy. My folks, the Rhetts, was plain people.”

“Some of 'em ain't so noticeably plain, either,” said Yancy.

“Sho', you've a heap of good sense, Mr. Yancy!” and Cavendish shook him warmly by the hand. “The first time I ever seen her, I says, I'll marry that lady if it takes an arm! Well, it did most of the time while I was co'tin' her.”

“La!” cried Polly, blushing furiously. “You shouldn't tell that, Dick. Mr. Yancy ain't interested.”

“Yes, sir, I'd been hearin' about old man Rhett's Polly fo' considerable of a spell,” said Cavendish, looking at Polly reflectively. “He lived up at the head waters of the Elk River. Fellows who had been to his place, when girls was mentioned would sort of shake their heads sad-like and say, 'Yes, but you had ought to see old man Rhett's Polly, all the rest is imitations!' Seemed like they couldn't get her off their minds. So I just slung my kit to my back, shouldered my rifle, and hoofed it up-stream. I says, I'll see for myself where this here paragon lays it all over the rest of her sect, but sho—the closter I came to old man Rhett the mo' I heard of Polly!”

“Dick, how you do run on,” cried Polly protestingly, but Chills and Fever's knightly soul dwelt in its illusions, and the years had not made stale his romance. Also Polly was beaming on him with a wealth of affection.

“I seen her fo' the first time as I was warmin' the trail within a mile of old man Rhett's. She was carrying a grist of co'n down to the mill in her father's ox cart. When I clapped eyes on her I says, 'I'll marry that lady. I'll make her the Countess of Lambeth—she'll shore do fo' the peerage any day!' That was yo' mommy, sneezic's!” Mr. Cavendish paused to address himself to the baby whom Connie had relinquished to him.

“You bet I made time the rest of the way. I says, 'She's sixteen if she's a day, and all looks!' I broke into old man Rhett's clearin' on a keen run. He was a settin' afo' his do' smokin' his pipe and he glanced me over kind of weary-like and says, 'Howdy!' It wa'n't much of a greetin' the way he said it either; but I figured it was some better than bein' chased off the place. So I stepped indo's, stood my rifle in a corner and hung up my cap. He was watchin' me and presently he drawled out, 'Make yo'self perfectly at home, stranger.'

“I says, 'Squire'—he wa'n't a squire, but they called him that—I says, 'Squire, my name's Cavendish. Let's get acquainted quick. I'm here fo' to co'te yo' Polly. I seen her on the road a spell back and I couldn't be better suited.'

“He says, 'You had ought to be kivered up in salt, young man, else yo'll spile in this climate.'

“I says, 'I'll keep in any climate.'

“He says, 'Polly ain't givin' her thoughts much to marryin', she's busy keepin' house fo' her pore old father.'

“I says, 'I've come here special fo' to arouse them thoughts you mention. If I seem slow.'

“He says, 'You don't. If this is yo' idea of bein' slow, I'd wish to avoid you when you was in a hurry.'

“I says, 'Put in yo' spare moments thinkin' up a suitable blessin' fo' us.'

“He says, 'You'll have yo' hands full. There's a number of young fellows hereabouts that you don't lay it over none in p'int of freshness or looks.'

“I says, 'Does she encourage any of 'em?'

“He says, 'Nope, she don't. Ain't I been tellin' you she's givin' her mind to keepin' house fo' her pore old father?'

“I says, 'If she don't encourage 'em none, she shore must disencourage 'em. I 'low she gets my help in that.'

“He says, 'They'll run you so far into the mountings, Mr. Cavendish, you'll never be heard tell of again in these parts.'

“I says, 'I'll bust the heads offen these here galoots if they try that!'

“He asks, grinnin', 'Have you arranged how yo' remains are to be sent back to yo' folks?'

“I says, 'I'm an orphan man of title, a peer of England, and you can leave me lay if it cones to that.'

“'Well,'. he says, 'if them's yo' wishes, the buzzards as good as got you.”' Cavendish lapsed into a momentary silence. It was plain that these were cherished memories.

“That's what I call co'tin!” remarked Mr. Yancy, with conviction.

The Earl of Lambeth resumed

“It was as bad as old man Rhett said it was. Sundays his do'yard looked like a militia muster. They told it on him that he hadn't cut a stick of wood since Polly was risin' twelve. I reckon, without exaggeration, I fit every unmarried man in that end of the county, and two lookin' widowers from Nashville. I served notice on to them that I'd attend to that woodpile of old man Rhett's fo' the future; that I was qualifying fo' to be his son-in-law, and seekin' his indorsement as a provider. I took 'em on one at a time as they happened along, and lambasted 'em all over the place. As fo' the Nashville widowers,” said Cavendish with a chuckle, and a nod to Polly, “I pretty nigh drownded one of 'em in the Elk. We met in mid-stream and fit it out there; and the other quit the county. That was fo'teen years ago; but, mind you, I'd do it all over again to-morrow.”

“But, Dick, you ain't telling Mr. Yancy nothin' about yo' title,” expostulated Polly.

“I'd admire to hear mo' about that,” said Yancy.

“I'm gettin' round to that. It was my great grandfather come over here from England. His name was Richard Keppel Cavendish, same as mine is. He lived back yonder on the Carolina coast and went to raisin' tobacco. I've heard my grandfather tell how he'd heard folks say his father was always hintin' in his licker that he was a heap better than he seemed, and if people only knowed the truth about him they'd respect him mo', and mebby treat him better. Well, sir, he married and riz a family; there was my grandfather and a passel of girls—and that crop of children was the only decent crop he ever riz. I've heard my grandfather tell how, when he got old enough to notice such things, he seen that his father had the look of a man with something mysterious hangin' over him, but he couldn't make it out what it was, though he gave it a heap of study. He seen, too, that let him get a taste of licker and he'd begin to throw out them hints, how if folks only knowed the truth they'd be just naturally fallin' over themselves fo' to do him a favor, instead of pickin' on him and tryin' to down him.

“My grandfather said he never knowed a man, either, with the same aversion agin labor as his father had. Folks put it down to laziness, but they misjudged him, as come out later, yet he never let on. He just went around sorrowful-like, and when there was a piece of work fo' him to do he'd spend a heap of time studyin' it, or mebby he'd just set and look at it until he was ready fo' to give it up. Appeared like he couldn't bring himself down to toil.

“Then one day he got his hands on a paper that had come acrost in a ship from England. He was readin' it, settin' in the shade; my grandfather said he always noticed he was partial to the shade, and his wife was pesterin' of him fo' to go and plow out his truck-patch, when, all at once, he lit on something in the paper, and he started up and let out a yell like he'd been shot. 'By gum, I'm the Earl of Lambeth!' he says, and took out to the nearest tavern and got b'ilin' full. Afterward he showed 'em the paper and they seen with their own eyes where Richard Keppel Cavendish, Earl of Lambeth, had died in London. My great grandfather told 'em that was his uncle; that when he left home there was several cousins—which was printed in the paper, too—but they'd up and died, so the title naturally come to him.

“Well, sir, that was the first the family ever knowed of it, and then they seen what it was he'd meant when he throwed out them hints about bein' a heap better than he seemed. He said perhaps he wouldn't never have told, only he couldn't bear to be misjudged like he'd always been.

“He never done a lick of work after that. He said he couldn't bring himself down to it; that it was demeanin' fo' a person of title fo' to labor with his hands like a nigger or a common white man. He said he'd leave it to his family to see he didn't come to want, it didn't so much matter about them; and he lived true to his principles to the day of his death, and never riz his hand except to feed himself.”

Cavendish paused. Yancy was feeling that in his own person he had experienced some of the best symptoms of a title.

“Then what?” he asked.

“Well, sir, he lived along like that, never complainin', my grandfather said, but mighty sweet and gentlelike as long as there was plenty to eat in the house. He lived to be nigh eighty, and when he seen he was goin' to die he called my grandfather to him and says, 'She's yours, Dick,'—meanin' the title—and then he says, 'There's one thing I've kep' from you. You've been a viscount ever since I come into the title, and then he went on and explained what he wanted cut on his tombstone, and had my grandfather write it out, so there couldn't be any mistake. When he'd passed away, my grandfather took the title. He said it made him feel mighty solemn and grand-like, and it come over him all at once why it was his father hadn't no heart fo' work.”

“Does it always take 'em that way?” inquired Yancy.

“It takes the Earls of Lambeth that way. I reckon you might say it was hereditary with 'em. Where was I at?”

“Your grandpap, the second earl,” prompted Polly.

“Oh, yes—well, he 'lowed he'd emigrate back to England, but while he was studying how he could do this, along come the war. He said he couldn't afford to fight agin his king, so he pulled out and crossed the mountings to avoid being drug into the army. He said he couldn't let it get around that the Earls of Lambeth was shootin' English soldiers.”

“Of course he couldn't,” agreed Yancy.

“It's been my dream to take Polly and the children and go back to England and see the king about my title. I 'low he'd be some surprised to see us. I'd like to tell him, too, what the Earls of Lambeth done fo' him—that they was always loyal, and thought a heap better of him than their neighbors done, and mebby some better than he deserved. Don't you reckon that not hearin' from us, he's got the notion the Cavendishes has petered out?”

Mr. Yancy considered this likely, and said so.

“You might send him writin' in a letter,” he suggested.

The furious shrieking of a steam-packet's whistle broke in upon them.

“It's another of them hawgs, wantin' all the river!” said Mr. Cavendish, and fled in haste to the steering oar.

During all the long days that followed, Mr. Yancy was forced to own that these titled friends of his were, despite their social position, uncommon white in their treatment of him. The Earl of Lambeth consorted with him in that fine spirit that recognizes the essential brotherhood of man, while his Lady Countess was, as Yancy observed, on the whole, a person of simple and uncorrupted tastes. She habitually went barefoot, both as a matter of comfort and economy, and she smoked her cob-pipe as did those other ladies of Lincoln County who had married into far less exalted stations than her own. He put these simple survivals down to her native goodness of heart, which would not allow of her succumbing to mere pride and vainglory, for he no more doubted their narrative than they, doubted it themselves, which was not at all.