“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 impressively, “it’s rumored Mavin Newton’s a-comin’ back for this here Old Home Week.”

“Um!...  Mavin Newton....  Um!...  Who up and la’nched that rumor?”

“Everybody’s a-talkin’ it up.  Folks says he’s sure to come, and then what in tunket’ll we do?  The sheriff’s goin’ to be busy handlin’ the crowds and the traffic and sich, and he won’t have no time fer extry miscreants, seems as though....  Folks is a-comin’ from as fur ’s Denver, and we don’t want no town criminal brought to justice in the middle of it all.  Though Mavin’s father ’d be glad to see his son ketched, I calc’late.”

“Hain’t interviewed Mattie Strong as ree-gards her feelin’s, have ye?”

“I wonder,” said Pliny, with intense interest, “if Mattie’s ever heard from him?  But she’s that close-mouthed.”

“‘Tain’t a common failin’ hereabouts,” said Scattergood.  “How long since Mavin run off?”

“Eight year come November.”

“The night before him and Mattie was goin’ to be married.”

“Uh-huh!  Takin’ with him that there fund the Congo church raised fer a new organ, and it’s took them eight year to raise it over ag’in.”

“And in the meantime,” said Scattergood, “I calc’late the tunes off of the old organ has riz about as pleasin’ to heaven as if ’twas new.  Squeaks some, I’m told, but I figger the squeaks gits kind of filtered out, and nothin’ but the true meanin’ of the tunes ever gits up to Him.”  Scattergood jerked a pudgy thumb skyward.

“More ’n two hunderd dollars, it was—­and Mavin treasurer of the church.  Old Man Newton he resigned as elder, and hain’t never set foot in church from that day to this.”

“Bein’ moved,” said Scattergood, “more by cantankerousness than grief.”

“I’ll venture,” said Pliny, “that there’ll be more’n five hunderd old residents a-comin’ back, and where in tunket we’re goin’ to sleep ’em all the committee don’t know.”

“Um!...  G’-by, Pliny,” said Scattergood, suddenly, and Pliny, recognizing the old hardware merchant’s customary and inescapable dismissal, got up off the step and cut across diagonally to the post office, where he could air his importance as a committeeman before an assemblage as ready to discuss the events of the week as he was himself.