was no relief for him. He had
joined his fortunes to those of Ovid Nixon--and to those of Ovid's
mother; had become _particeps criminis_, and the requirements of the
situation rested heavily upon him.

It was past midnight before the laborious four finished their review of
the books and joined with Scattergood in giving Ovid a clean bill of
health.

"Didn't think Ovid had it in him to steal," said Kettleman.

"Hain't got no business stirrin' us up like this for nothin'," said
Atwell, acrimoniously.

"Maybe," suggested Scattergood, "Ovid's come down with a fit of
suthin'."

"Hope it's painful," said Lafe, "I'm a-goin' home to bed."

"What'll we do?" asked Deacon Pettybone.

"Nothin'," said Scattergood, "till some doin' is called fur. Calc'late I
better slip on my shoes. Might meet my wife." Mandy Scattergood was
doing her able best to break Scattergood of his shoeless ways.

"Guess we'll let Ovid git through when he comes back," said Deacon
Pettybone, harshly, making use of the mountain term to denote discharge.
There no one is ever discharged, no one ever resigns. The single phrase
covers both actions--the individual "gets through."

"I always figgered," said Scattergood, urbanely, "that it was allus
premature to git ahead of time.... I'm calc'latin' on runnin' down to
see what kind of a fit of ailment Ovid's come down with."

Next morning, having in the meantime industriously allowed the rumor to
go abroad that Ovid was suddenly ill, Scattergood took the seven-o'clock
for points south. He did not know where he was going, but expected to
pick up information on that question en route. His method of reaching
for it was to take a seat on a trunk in the baggage car.

The railroad, Scattergood's individual property and his greatest step
forward in his dream for the development of the Coldriver Valley, was
but a year old now. It was twenty-four miles long, but he regarded it
with an affection only second to his love for his hardware store--and
he dealt with it as an indulgent parent.... Pliny Pickett once stage
driver, was now conductor, and wore with ostentation a uniform suitable
to the dignity, speaking of "my railroad" largely.

"Hear Ovid Nixon's sick down to town" said Pliny.

"Sich a rumor's come to me."

"Likely at the Mountain House?" ventured Pliny.

"Shouldn't be s'prised."

"That's where he mostly stopped," said Pliny.

"Um!... Wonder what ailment Ovid was most open to git?"

Scattergood and