Carrington's kin to me, Polly," explained Yancy to Mrs.
Cavendish. His voice was far from steady, for Hannibal had been
gathered into his arms and had all but wrecked the stoic calm
with which the Scratch Hiller was seeking to guard his emotions.
Polly smiled and dimpled at the Kentuckian. Trained to a
romantic point of view she had a frank liking for handsome
stalwart men. Cavendish was neither, but none knew better than
Polly that where he was most lacking in appearance he was richest
in substance. He carried scars honorably earned in those
differences he had been prone to cultivate with less generous
natures; for his scheme of life did not embrace the millennium.
"Thank God, you got here when you did!" said Carrington.
"We was some pushed fo' time, but we done it," responded the earl
modestly. He added, "What now?--do we make a landing?"
"No--unless it interferes with your plans not to. I 'want to get
around the next bend before we tie up. Later we'll all go back.
Can I count on you?"
"You shorely can. I consider this here as sociable a
neighborhood as I ever struck. It pleases me well. Folks are up
and doing hereabout."
Carrington looked eagerly around in search of Betty. She was
sitting on an upturned tub, a pathetic enough figure as she
drooped against the wall of one of the shanties with all her
courage quite gone from her. He made his way quickly to her
side.
"La!" whispered Polly in Chills and Fever's ear.
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