CHAPTER XI

A stranger came to Abingdon by the morning train.  Because of a wide-brimmed gray hat, which he wore pushed well back, to testify against burning suns elsewhere—­where such hats must be pulled well down, of necessity—­a few Abingdonians, in passing, gave the foreigner the tribute of a backward glance.  A few only; Abingdon has scant time for curiosity.  Abingdon works hard for a living, like Saturday’s child, three hundred and sixty-five days a year; except every fourth year.

Aside from the hat, the foreigner might have been, for apparel, a thrifty farmer on a trip to his market town.  He wore a good ready-made suit, a soft white shirt with a soft collar, and a black tie, shot with red.  But an observer would have seen that this was no care-lined farmer face; that, though the man himself was small, his feet were disproportionately and absurdly small; that his toes pointed forward as he walked; and detraction might have called him bow-legged.  This was Mr. Peter Johnson.

Mr. Johnson took breakfast at the Abingdon Arms.  He expressed to the landlord of that hostelry a civil surprise and gratification at the volume of Abingdon’s business, evinced by a steadily swelling current of early morning wagons, laden with produce, on their way to the station, or, by the river road, to the factory towns near by; was assured that he should come in the potato-hauling season if he thought that was busy; parried a few polite questions; and asked the way to the Selden Farm.

He stayed at the Selden Farm that day and that night.  Afternoon of the next day found him in Lawyer Mitchell’s waiting-room, at Vesper, immediate successor of Mr. Chauncey Bowen, then engaged in Lawyer Mitchell’s office on the purchase of the Watkins Farm; and he was presently ushered into the presence of Mr. Mitchell by the demon clerk.

Mr. Mitchell greeted him affably.

“Good-day, sir.  What can I do for you to-day?”

“Mr. Oscar Mitchell, is it?”

“The same, and happy to serve you.”

“Got a letter for you from your cousin, Stan.  My name’s Johnson.”

Mitchell extended his hand, gave Pete a grip of warm welcome.

“I am delighted to see you, Mr. Johnson.  Take a chair—­this big one is the most comfortable.  And how is Stanley?  A good boy; I am very fond of him.  But, to be honest about it, he is a wretched correspondent.  I have not heard from him since Christmas, and then barely a line—­the compliments of the season.  What is he doing with himself?  Does he prosper?  And why did he not come himself?”

“As far as making money is concerned, he stands to make more than he’ll ever need, as you’ll see when you read his letter,” said Pete.  “Otherwise he’s only just tol’able.  Fact is, he’s confined to his room.  That’s why I come to do this business for him.”

“Stanley sick?  Dear, dear!  What is it?  Nothing serious, I hope!”