“Did you ever suspect I was a very vain kind of fellow, Colonel?” he asked. “Sort of foolish proud about appearances?”

The colonel’s eyes refused to wander to the soiled, sagging suit of flax and the faded slouch hat.

“It seems to me,” he replied, mystified, but humouring him, “I remember a young buck about twenty, with the tightest coat, the sleekest hair, and the prancingest saddle horse in the Blue Ridge.”

“Right you are,” said Goree eagerly. “And it’s in me yet, though it don’t show. Oh, I’m as vain as a turkey gobbler, and as proud as Lucifer. I’m going to ask you to indulge this weakness of mine in a little matter.”

“Speak out, Yancey. We’ll create you Duke of Laurel and Baron of Blue Ridge, if you choose; and you shall have a feather out of Stella’s peacock’s tail to wear in your hat.”

“I’m in earnest. In a few minutes we’ll pass the house up there on the hill where I was born, and where my people have lived for nearly a century. Strangers live there now—and look at me! I am about to show myself to them ragged and poverty-stricken, a wastrel and a beggar. Colonel Coltrane, I’m ashamed to do it. I want you to let me wear your coat and hat until we are out of sight beyond. I know you think it a foolish pride, but I want to make as good a showing as I can when I pass the old place.”

“Now, what does this mean?” said Coltrane to himself, as he compared his companion’s sane looks and quiet demeanour with his strange request. But he was already unbuttoning the coat, assenting readily, as if the fancy were in no wise to be considered strange.

The coat and hat fitted Goree well. He buttoned the former about him with a look of satisfaction and dignity. He and Coltrane were nearly the same size—rather tall, portly, and erect. Twenty-five years were between them, but in appearance they might have been brothers. Goree looked older than his age; his face was puffy and lined; the colonel had the smooth, fresh complexion of a temperate liver. He put on Goree’s disreputable old flax coat and faded slouch hat.

“Now,” said Goree, taking up the reins, “I’m all right. I want you to ride about ten feet in the rear as we go by, Colonel, so that they can get a good look at me. They’ll see I’m no back number yet, by any means. I guess I’ll show up pretty well to them once more, anyhow. Let’s ride on.”

He set out up the hill at a smart trot, the colonel following, as he had been requested.

Goree sat straight in the saddle, with head erect, but his eyes were turned to the right, sharply scanning every shrub and fence and hiding-place in the old homestead yard. Once he muttered to himself, “Will the crazy fool try it, or did I dream half of it?”

It was when he came opposite the little family burying ground that he saw what he had been looking for—a puff of white smoke, coming from the thick cedars in one corner. He toppled so slowly to the left that Coltrane had time to urge his horse to that side, and catch him with one arm.

The squirrel hunter had not overpraised his aim. He had sent the bullet where he intended, and where Goree had expected that it would pass—through the breast of Colonel Abner Coltrane’s black frock-coat.

Goree leaned heavily against Coltrane, but he did not fall. The horses kept pace, side by side and the colonel’s arm kept him steady. The little white houses of Laurel shone through the trees, half a mile away. Goree reached out one hand and groped until it rested upon Coltrane’s fingers, which held his bridle.

“Good friend,” he said, and that was all.

Thus did Yancey Goree, as he rode past his old home, make, considering all things, the best showing that was in his power.