the kitchen. His full name was Luther Millard
Filmore Rogers, and he was Dorinda's husband by law, and the burden
which Providence, or hard luck, had ordered her to carry through this
vale of tears. She was a good Methodist and there was no doubt in
her mind that Providence was responsible. When she rose to testify in
prayer-meeting she always mentioned her "cross" and everybody knew that
the cross was Luther. She carried him, but it is no more than fair to
say that she didn't provide him with cushions. She never let him forget
that he was a steerage passenger. However, Lute was well upholstered
with philosophy, of a kind, and, so long as he didn't have to work his
passage, was happy, even if the voyage was a rather rough one.

Just now he was supposed to be raking the back yard, but the rake was
between his knees, his head was tipped back against the shingled wall
of the kitchen, and he was sleeping, with the sunshine illuminating his
open mouth, "for all the world like a lamp in a potato cellar," as his
wife had said the last time she caught him in this position. She went on
to say that it was a pity he wouldn't stand on his head when he slept.
"Then I could see if your skull was as holler as I believe it is," she
told him.

Lute heard me as I passed him and woke up. The "potato cellar" closed
with a snap and he seized the rake handles with both hands.

"I was takin' a sort of observation," he explained hurriedly. "Figgerin'
whether I'd better begin here or over by the barn. Oh, it's you, Roscoe,
is it! Land sakes! I thought first 'twas Dorindy. Where you bound?"

"Up to the village," I said.

"Ain't goin' to the post-office, be you?"

"I may; I don't know."

Lute sighed. "I was kind of cal'latin' to go there myself," he observed,
regretfully. "Thoph Newcomb and Cap'n Jed Dean and the rest of us
was havin' a talk on politics last night up there and 'twas mighty
interestin'. Old Dean had Thoph pretty well out of the race when I
hauled alongside, but when I got into the argument 'twas different.
'What's goin' to become of the laborin' men of this country if you have
free trade?' I says. Dean had to give in that he didn't know. 'Might
have to let their wives support 'em,' he says, pompous as ever. 'That
would be a calamity, wouldn't it, Lute?' That wasn't no answer, of
course. But you can't expect sense of a Democrat. I left him fumin' and
come away. I've thought of a lot more questions to ask him since and
I was