scythes and snaths, hoes, wooden hand rakes and a brass warming-pan hung from the rafters.  At the rear end of the store was a large fireplace.  There were two chairs near the fireplace, both of which were occupied by a man who sat in one while his feet lay on the other.  He was sleeping peacefully, his chin resting on his breast.  He wore a calico shirt with a fanciful design of morning-glories on it printed in appropriate colors, a collar of the same material and a red necktie.

Abe laid aside his book and rose to a sitting posture.

“Pardon me—­you see the firm is busy,” said Abe.  “You know Eb Zane used to say that he was never so busy in his life as when he lay on his back with a broken leg.  He said he had to work twenty-four hours a day doin’ nothin’ an’ could never git an hour off.  But a broken leg is not so bad as a lame intellect.  That lays you out with the fever an’ ague of ignorance.  Jack Kelso recommended Kirkham’s pills and poultices of poetry.  I’m trying both and slowly getting the better of it.  I’ve learned three conjugations, between customers, this afternoon.”

The man sleeping in the chair began snoring and groaning.

“Don’t blame Bill,” Abe went on.  “Any man would have the nightmare in a shirt like that.  He went to a dance at Clary’s Grove last night and they shut him up in a barrel with a small dog and rolled ’em down hill in it.  I reckon that’s how he learnt how to growl.”

In the laughter that followed the sleeper awoke.

“You see there’s quite an undercurrent beneath the placid surface of our enterprise,” Abe added.

The sleeper whose name was William Berry rose and stretched himself and was introduced to the newcomer.  He was a short, genial man, of some thirty years, with blond, curly hair and mustache.  On account of his shortness and high color he was often referred to as the Billberry shortcake.  His fat cheeks had a color as definite as that of the blossoms on his shirt, now rather soiled.  His prominent nose shared their glow of ruddy opulence.  His gray eyes wore a look of apology.  He walked rather stiffly as if his legs were rheumatic.

“Mr. Traylor, this is Mr. William Berry,” said Dr. Allen.  “In this beautiful shirt he resembles a bit of vine-clad sculpture from an Italian garden, but is real flesh and blood and a good fellow.”

“I don’t understand your high-toned talk,” said Berry.  “This shirt suits me to a dot.”

“It is the pride of New Salem,” said the Doctor.  “Mr. Traylor has just acquired an interest in all our institutions.  He has bought the Gollaher tract and is going to build a house and some fences.  Abe, couldn’t you help get the timber out in a hurry so we can have a raising within a week?  You know the arts of the axe better than any of us.”

Abe looked at Samson.

“I reckon he and I would make a good team with the axe,” he said.  “He looks as if he could push a house down with one hand and build it up with the other.  You can bet I’ll be glad to help in any way I can.”