“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 Pliny talked politics for the rest of the journey, and, as usual, Pliny received directions to “talk up” certain matters to his passengers.  Pliny was one of Scattergood’s main channels to public opinion.  At the junction Scattergood changed for the short ride to town, and there he carried his ancient valise up to the Mountain House, where he registered.

“Young feller named Nixon—­Ovid Nixon—­stoppin’ here?” he asked the clerk.

“Checked out Monday night.”

“Um!...  Monday night, eh?  Expect him back?  I was calc’latin’ on meetin’ him here to-day.”

“He usually gets in Saturday night....  You might ask Mr. Pillows, over there by the cigar case.  He and Nixon hang out together.”

Scattergood scrutinized Mr. Pillows and did not like the appearance of that young man; not that he looked especially vicious, but there was a sort of useless, lazy, sponging look to him.  Baines set him down as the sort of young man who would play Kelly pool with money his mother earned by doing laundry, and, in addition, catalogued him as a “saphead.”  He acted accordingly.