"No," he said, "that would be
cowardly. I shall keep it always, to remind me of my hellish mistake.
Great God! the idea of my going to her funeral in a red wagon with
Lizzie Lithicum--Lizzie Lithicum!"
The next morning, as he was returning from the post-office, Westerfelt
met Peter Slogan riding to a field he had rented down the road, and
which he was getting ready for cotton-planting. Slogan was astride of
his bony horse, which was already clad in shuck collar and clanking
harness, and carried on his shoulder a cumbersome plough-stock.
"Well," he smiled, reining in as he caught Westerfelt's eye, "I 'lowed
hard work in the sun would do more to git the kinks out'n me after all
the trouble at my house than anything else."
"How is Mrs. Dawson?" ventured Westerfelt.
"You'd better ax me how she _ain't_," retorted Slogan, shrugging his
shoulders. "I could tell you a sight easier. She's turned into a
regular hell-cat. I thought her an' my wife was bad enough 'fore the
trouble, but it's wuss now. The ol' woman has left us."
"Left you?" repeated Westerfelt.
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