“It’s good you’re gittin’ your dates cleared,” snapped old Bolum.  “On history, Henery Holmes, you are the worst.”

Henry retorted with an angry protest against the indictment, declaring that he was studying history when Bolum was being nourished on “soft food.”  That was true.  Isaac admitted it frankly.  He wasn’t his mother’s keeper, that he could regulate his own birthday.  Had that been in his power he would certainly have set it a half century earlier or later to avoid being constantly annoyed by the “onreasonablest argeyments” Six Stars had ever heard.  This made old Holmes smile softly, and he turned and winked at me.  The one thing he had ever been thankful for, he said, was that his life had fallen with that of Isaac Bolum.  Whenever he done wrong; whenever the consciousness of sin was upon him and he needed the chastisin’ rod, he just went to the store and set and listened to Ike.  To this Isaac retorted that it was a wonder the rod had not worn out long ago; it was pleasing to know, at least, that he was made of tough old hickory.  Henry admitted this to be a “good ’un” on him—­an unusual one, considering the source—­but that did not settle the exact date of the arrival of Piney Martin’s spring-bed.

It was time for me to protest that it mattered little whether the event occurred on July sixth or a week later, since what really interested me was the question as to who was the owner of the third of these luxuries.  Isaac’s serious, self-conscious look answered me, but I pressed the inquiry to give him an opportunity to sing the praises of this newest of his household gods.  Mr. Bolum’s pleasure was evident.  Once launched into an account of the comfort of springs as compared to a straw-tick on ropes, he would have monopolized our attention to the end of the journey, but the sagacious Henry blocked him rudely by a tug at the reins which almost threw the lemon-colored mules on their haunches.

We were at the foot of the slope where the road to Buzzards Glory branches from the pike.  The Arkers had spied us coming, and ran down from the tannery to greet us.  Arnold, after he had a dozen times expressed his delight at my return, asked if I had seen any shooting.  His son Sam’s wife nudged him and whispered in his ear, upon which he apologized abruptly, explaining that he had dropped his spectacles in the tanning vat.  Sam sought to extricate his father from these imaginary difficulties by demanding that I go coon-hunting with him on the next night.  This set Sam’s wife’s elbow going again very vigorously, and the further embarrassment of the whole family was saved by Henry Holmes swinging the whip across the backs of the mules.

On went the state-coach of Black Log.  We clattered quickly over the last level stretch.  We dragged up the last long hill, and from its brow I looked on the roofs of Six Stars rising here and there from the green bed of trees.  I heard the sonorous rumble of the mill, and above it a shrill and solitary crow.  On the state-coach went, down the steep, driving the mules madly before it.  Their hoofs made music on the bridge, and my journey was ended.