"The settleMINTS," echoed the Major, and then he understood. He recalled having heard the mountaineers call the Bluegrass region the "settlemints" before. 

 "I come down on a raft with Dolph and Tom and Rube and the Squire and the school-teacher, an' I got lost in Frankfort. They've gone on, I reckon, an' I'm tryin' to ketch 'em." 

 "What will you do if you don't?" 

 "Foller'em," said Chad, sturdily. 

 "Does your father live down in the mountains?" 

 "No," said Chad, shortly. 

 The Major looked at the lad gravely. 

 "Don't little boys down in the mountains ever say sir to their elders?" 

 "No," said Chad. "No, sir," he added gravely and the Major broke into a pleased laugh—the boy was quick as lightning. 

 "I ain't got no daddy. An' no mammy—I ain't got—nothin'." It was said quite simply, as though his purpose merely was not to sail under false colors, and the Major's answer was quick and apologetic: 

 "Oh!" he said, and for a moment there was silence again. Chad watched the woods, the fields, and the cattle, the strange grain growing about him, and the birds and the trees. Not a thing escaped his keen eye, and, now and then, he would ask a question which the Major would answer with some surprise and wonder. His artless ways pleased the old fellow. 

 "You haven't told me your name." 

 "You hain't axed me." 

 "Well, I axe you now," laughed the Major, but Chad saw nothing to laugh at. 

 "Chad," he said. 

 "Chad what?" 

 Now it had always been enough in the mountains, when anybody asked his name, for him to answer simply—Chad. He hesitated now and his brow wrinkled as though he were thinking hard. 

 "I don't know," said Chad. 

 "What? Don't know your own name?" The boy looked up into the Major's face with eyes that were so frank and unashamed and at the same time so vaguely troubled that the Major was abashed. 

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