Scattergood pulled on his shoes and, leaving his store to take care of itself, walked up the road, turned across the mowing which had been metamorphosed into an athletic field, trusted his weight to the temporary bridge across the brook, and scrambled up the bank to the great oven where the steer was to be baked, and where the potato hole was ready to receive twenty bushels of potatoes and the arch was ready to receive the sugar vat in which two thousand ears of corn were to be steamed.  Pliny Pickett was in charge, with Ulysses Watts, sheriff, and Coroner Bogle as assistants.  They had fired up already, and were sitting blissfully by in the blistering heat, bragging about the sort of meal they were going to purvey, and speculating on whether the imported band would play enough, and how the ball games would come out, and naming over the folks who were expected to arrive from distant parts.

“This here town team hain’t what it was ten year ago,” said the sheriff.  “In them days the boys knowed how to play ball.  There was me ‘n’ Will Pratt and Pliny here ‘n’ Avery Sutphin, that was sheriff ’fore I was....”

“What ever become of Avery?” Pliny asked.

“Went West.  Heard suthin’ about him a spell back, but don’t call to mind what it was.  Wonder if he’ll be comin’ back with the rest?”

“Dunno.  Think there’s anythin’ in the rumor that Mavin Newton’s comin’?” “Hope not,” said the sheriff, assuming an official look and feeling of the suspender to which was affixed his badge of office.  “Don’t want to have no arrestin’ to do durin’ Old Home Week.”

“Calc’late to take him in if he comes?”

“Duty,” said Sheriff Watts, “is duty.”

“When it hain’t a pleasure,” said Scattergood.  “Recall what place Avery Sutphin went to?”

“Seems like it was Oswego.  Some’eres out West like that.”

“Wisht all the town ‘u’d quit traipsin’ over here,” said Pliny.  “Never see sich curiosity.  They needn’t to think they’re goin’ to git a look at the critter while he’s a-cookin’.  No, siree.  Nobody but this here committee sees him till he’s took out final, ready fer eatin’.”

All that day visitors arrived in town.  They drove in, came by train and by stage—­and walked.  There was no house whose ready hospitality was not taxed to its capacity, and the ladies in charge of the restaurant in Masonic Hall became frantic and sent out hysterical messengers for more food and more help.  Every house was dressed in flags and bunting.  Even Deacon Pettybone, reputed to be the “nearest” inhabitant of the village, flew one small cotton flag, reputed to have cost fifteen cents, from his front stoop.  The bridge was so covered with red, white, and blue as to quite lose its identity as a bridge and to become one of the wonders of the world, to be talked about for a decade.  As one looked up the street a similarity of motion, almost machinelike, was apparent.  It was an endless shaking of hands as old friend met old friend joyously.