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“What’s a composer?” inquired Ross, with visions of soothing-syrup in his mind.

“A man that makes up music. Don’t butt in that way; you put me all out—’composer is. Name yours. Ask her what piece of music she likes best. Name yours. If the lady is musical, here ask her to play or sing.'”

This chanted recitation seemed to have a hypnotic effect on the freckled boy; his big pupils contracted each time Abner came to the repetend, “Name yours.”

“I’m tired already,” he grumbled; but some spell made him rise and fare farther.

When they had entered the Claiborne gate, they leaned toward each other like young saplings weakened at the root and locking branches to keep what shallow foothold on earth remained.

“You’re goin’ in first,” asserted Ross, but without conviction. It was his custom to tear up to this house a dozen times a week, on his father’s old horse or afoot; he was wont to yell for Champe as he approached, and quarrel joyously with her while he performed such errand as he had come upon; but he was gagged and hamstrung now by the hypnotism of Abner’s scheme.

“‘Walk quietly up the steps; ring the bell and lay your card on the servant,'” quoted Abner, who had never heard of a server.

“‘Lay your card on the servant!'” echoed Ross. “Cady’d dodge. There’s a porch to cross after you go up the steps—does it say anything about that?”

“It says that the card should be placed on the servant,” Abner
reiterated, doggedly. “If Cady dodges, it ain’t any business of mine.
There are no porches in my book. Just walk across it like anybody.
We’ll ask for Miss Champe Claiborne.”

“We haven’t got any cards,” discovered Ross, with hope.

“I have,” announced Abner, pompously. “I had some struck off in
Chicago. I ordered ’em by mail. They got my name Pillow, but there’s a
scalloped gilt border around it. You can write your name on my card.
Got a pencil?”

He produced the bit of cardboard; Ross fished up a chewed stump of lead pencil, took it in cold, stiff fingers, and disfigured the square with eccentric scribblings.

“They’ll know who it’s meant for,” he said, apologetically, “because
I’m here. What’s likely to happen after we get rid of the card?”

“I told you about hanging your hat on the rack and disposing your legs.”

“I remember now,” sighed Ross. They had been going slower and slower. The angle of inclination toward each other became more and more pronounced.

“We must stand by each other,” whispered Abner.

“I will—if I can stand at all,” murmured the other boy, huskily.

“Oh, Lord!” They had rounded the big clump of evergreens and found Aunt Missouri Claiborne placidly rocking on the front porch! Directed to mount steps and ring bell, to lay cards upon the servant, how should one deal with a rosy-faced, plump lady of uncertain years in a rocking-chair. What should a caller lay upon her? A lion in the way could not have been more terrifying. Even retreat was cut off. Aunt Missouri had seen them. “Howdy, boys; how are you?” she said, rocking peacefully. The two stood before her like detected criminals.

Then, to Ross’s dismay, Abner sank down on the lowest step of the porch, the westering sun full in his hopeless eyes. He sat on his cap. It was characteristic that the freckled boy remained standing. He would walk up those steps according to plan and agreement, if at all. He accepted no compromise. Folding his straw hat into a battered cone, he watched anxiously for the delivery of the card. He was not sure what Aunt Missouri’s attitude might be if it were laid on her. He bent down to his companion. “Go ahead,” he whispered. “Lay the card.”

Abner raised appealing eyes. “In a minute. Give me time,” he pleaded.

“Mars’ Ross—Mars’ Ross! Head ’em off!” sounded a yell, and Babe, the house-boy, came around the porch in pursuit of two half-grown chickens.