The boy looked vaguely before him. “I reckon,” was all he said.

Again the bishop paced the floor, and waited.

“I hain’t afeared to work — right hard.”

“Good; what kind of work can you do?” Frale flushed a dark red and was silent. “Yes, I know you can make corn whiskey, but that is the devil’s work. You’re not to work for him any more.”

Again silence. At last, in a low voice, he ventured: “I’ll do any kind o’ work you-all gin’ me to do — ef — ef only the officers will leave me be — an’ I tol’ Cass I’d larn writin’.”

“Good, very good. Can you drive a horse? Yes, of course.”