"Howdy, Ole Cap'n." Crittenden had been "Ole Captain" with the
servants--since the death of "Ole Master," his father--to distinguish
him from "Young Captain," who was his brother, Basil. Master and servant
shook hands and Bob's teeth flashed.
"What's the matter, Bob?"
Bob climbed into the buggy.
"You gwine to de wah."
Crittenden laughed.
"How do you know, Bob?"
"Oh, I know--I know. I seed it when you was drivin' up to de stiles, an'
lemme tell you, Ole Cap'n." The horse started for the barn suddenly and
Bob took a wide circuit in order to catch the eye of a brown milkmaid in
the cowpens, who sniffed the air scornfully, to show that she did not
see him, and buried the waves of her black hair into the silken sides of
a young Jersey.
"Yes," he said, shaking his head and making threats to himself, "an'
Bob's gwine wid him."
As Crittenden climbed the stiles, old Keziah filled the kitchen-door.
"Time you gittin' back, suh," she cried with mock severity. "I been
studyin' 'bout you. Little mo' an' I'd 'a' been comin' fer you myself.
Yes--suh."
And she gave a loud laugh that rang through the yard and ended in a
soft, queer little whoop that was musical. Crittenden smiled but,
instead of answering, raised his hand warningly and, as he approached
the portico, he stepped from the gravel-walk to the thick turf and began
to tiptoe. At the foot of the low flight of stone steps he
stopped--smiling.
The big double front door was wide open, and straight through the big,
wide hallway and at the entrance of the dining-room, a sword--a long
cavalry sabre--hung with a jaunty gray cap on the wall. Under them stood
a boy with his hands clasped behind him and his chin upraised. The lad
could see the bullet-hole through the top, and he knew that on the visor
was a faded stain of his father's blood. As a child, he had been told
never to touch the cap or sword and, until this moment, he had not
wanted to take them down since he was a child; and even now the habit of
obedience held him back for a while, as he stood looking up at them.
Outside, a light wind rustled the leaves of the rose-bush at his
mother's window, swept through the open door, and made the curtain at
his elbow swell gently. As the heavy fold fell back to its place and
swung out again, it caught the hilt of the sword and made the metal
point of the scabbard clank softly against the wall. The boy breathed
sharply, remembered that he was grown, and reverently reached upward.
There was the stain where the blood had run down from the furrowed wound
that had caused his father's death, long after the war and just before
the boy was born. The hilt was tarnished, and when he caught it and
pulled, the blade came out a little way and stuck fast. Some one stepped
on the porch outside and he turned quickly, as he might have turned had
some one caught him unsheathing the weapon when a child.