Caleb Hazel if anybody. 

 "Well, now, I wonder," said Chad—"the school-teacher might'a' stayed." 

 Again the two lapsed into silence—Chad thinking very hard. He might yet catch the school-master in Lexington, and he grew very cheerful at the thought. 

 "You ain't told me yo' name," he said, presently. The Major's lips smiled under the brim of his hat. 

 "You hain't axed me." 

 "Well, I axe you now." Chad, too, was smiling. 

 "Cal," said the Major. "Cal what?" 

 "I don't know." 

 "Oh, yes, you do, now—you foolin' me"—the boy lifted one finger at the Major. 

 "Buford, Calvin Buford." 

 "Buford—Buford—Buford," repeated the boy, each time with his forehead wrinkled as though he were trying to recall something. 

 "What is it, Chad?" 

 "Nothin'—nothin'." 

 And then he looked up with bewildered face at the Major and broke into the quavering voice of an old man. 

 "Chad Buford, you little devil, come hyeh this minute or I'll beat the life outen you!" 

 "What—what!" said the Major excitedly. The boy's face was as honest as the sky above him. "Well, that's funny—very funny." 

 "Well, that's it," said Chad, "that's what ole Nathan used to call me. I reckon I hain't naver thought o' my name agin tell you axed me." The Major looked at the lad keenly and then dropped back in his seat ruminating. 

 Away back in 1778 a linchpin had slipped in a wagon on the Wilderness Road and his grandfather's only brother, Chadwick Buford, had concluded to stop there for a while and hunt and come on later—thus ran an old letter that the Major had in his strong box at 

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