Mr. Newsome was tall and broad and well on the way to portliness.  His limbs were massive and slow of movement and his head large, with a mane of slightly graying hair flung back from a wide, unfurrowed brow.  Small and very black eyes pierced out from crinkled heavy lids and a bulldog jaw shot out from under a fat beak of a nose.  And over the broad expanse of countenance was spread a smile so sweet, so deep, so high that it gave the impression of obscuring the form of features entirely.  In point of fact it was a thick and impenetrable veil that the Senator had for long hung before his face from behind which to view the world at large.  And through his mouth, as through a rent in the smile, he was wont to pour out a volume of voice as musical in its drawl and intensified southern burr as the bass note on a well-seasoned ’cello.

He was performing the obligato of a prohibition hymn for the group of farmers around him when he caught sight of Everett as he came across the street.  Instantly his voice was lowered to a honeyed conversational pitch as he came to the edge of the porch and held out a large, fat, white hand, into which Everett laid his own by courtesy perforced.

“I’m delighted to see you, Mr. Everett, suh, delighted!” he boomed.  “And in such evident improved health.  I inquired for you at Bolivar as soon as I returned and I was informed that you had come over here to find perfect restoration to health in the salubrious climate of this wonderful town of Sweetbriar.  I’m glad to see your looks confirm the answer to my anxious inquiries.  And is all well with you?”

“Thank you, Senator, I’m in pretty good shape again,” answered Everett with a counter smile.  “Ten pounds on and I’m in fighting trim.”  The words were said pleasantly, but for the life of him Everett could not control the hostility of a quick glance that apparently struck harmlessly against the veil of smiles.

“That there ten pounds had oughter be twenty, Senator, at the rate of the Alloway feeding of him, from milk-house to cellar preserve shelf,” said Mr. Crabtree from behind the counter where he was doing up a pound of tea for the poet, who found it impossible to take his eyes off the politician.  “Miss Rose Mary ain’t give me a glass of buttermilk for more’n a week, and they do say she has to keep a loaf handy in the milk-house to feed him ’fore he gets as far as Miss Amandy and the kitchen.  We’re going to run him in a fattening race with Mis’ Rucker’s fancy red hog she’s gitting ready for the State Fair and the new Poteet baby, young Master Tucker Poteet of Sweetbriar.”

“So there’s a new Poteet young man, and named for my dear friend, Mr. Alloway!  My congratulations, Mr. Poteet!” exclaimed the senator as he pumped the awkward, horny hand of the embarrassed but proud Mr. Poteet up and down as if it were the handle of the town pump.  “I must be sure to have an introduction to the young man.  Want to meet all the voters,” he added, shaking out the smile veil with energy.