e happened to be
standing on the depot platform.

"Make you acquainted with Mis' Nixon," said Scattergood, with gravity.
"She's what Ovid come down with.... Can't blame a young feller for
forgittin' work a day or two when he's got him sich a wife.... Deacon,
this here girl's performed a service for Coldriver. Increased our
population by two--her and Ovid. And, Deacon, Ovid hain't the fust man
that ever was made so's he was wuth countin' in the census by marryin'
him a wife...."

"Dummed if she hain't got red hair," was the deacon's astonished
contribution. It was as near to congratulations as the deacon ever came.

CHAPTER XII

THE SON THAT WAS DEAD

"The ox is dressed and hung," said Pliny Pickett, with the air of a man
announcing that the country has been saved from destruction.

"Uh!... How much 'd he dress?" asked Scattergood Baines, moving in his
especially reinforced armchair until it creaked its protest.

"Eight hunderd and forty-three--accordin' to Newt Patterson's scales."

"Which hain't never been knowed to err on the side of overweight," said
Scattergood, dryly.

"The boys has got the oven fixed for roastin' him, and the band gits in
on the mornin' train, failin' accidents, and the dec'rations is up in
the taown hall--'n' now we kin git ready for a week of stiddy rain."

"They's wuss things than rain," said Scattergood, "though at the minnit
I don't call to mind what they be."

"Deacon Pettybone's north mowin' is turned into a baseball grounds, and
everybody in town is buyin' buntin' to wrap their harnesses, and
Kittleman's fetched in more 'n five bushels of peanuts, and every young
un in taown'll be sick with the stummick ache."

"Feelin' extry cheerful this mornin', hain't ye? Kind of more
hopeful-like than I call to mind seein' you fer some time."

"Never knowed no big celebration to come off like it was planned, or
'thout somebody gittin' a leg busted, or the big speaker fergittin' what
day it was, or suthin'. Seems like the hull weight of this here falls
right on to me."

"Responsibility," said Scattergood, with a twinkle in his eye, "is a
turrible thing to bear up under. But nothin' hain't happened yit, and
folks is dependin' on you, Pliny, to see 't nothin' mars the party."

"It'll rain on to the _pe_-rade, and the ball game'll bust up in a
fight, and pickpockets'll most likely git wind of sich a big gatherin'
and come swarmin' in.... Scattergood," he lowered his voice
impressi