THE planter alighted from the dusty-little train under the crumbling brick car-shed at Darley, and, turning his heavy hand-luggage over to the negro porter, he walked across the grass to the steps of the Johnston House. Here he was met by Jim Thornton, the dapper young clerk, who always had a curled mustache and oiled hair smoothed flatly down over his brow. “Oh, here you are, right side up, Captain Duncan!” he cried, cordially. “You can't stay away from those level acres of yours very long at a time.”…
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