The Major first came to East Harniss one balmy morning in March—­came, and created an immediate sensation.  “Redny” Blount, who drives the “depot wagon,” was wrestling with a sample trunk belonging to the traveling representative of Messrs. Braid & Gimp, of Boston, when he heard a voice—­and such a voice—­saying: 

“Pardon me, my dear sir, but may I trouble you for one moment?”

Now “Redny” was not used to being addressed as “my dear sir.”  He turned wonderingly, and saw the Major, in all his glory, standing beside him.  “Redny’s” gaze took in the tall, slim figure in the frock coat tightly buttoned; took in the white hair, worn just long enough to touch the collar of the frock coat; the long, drooping white mustache and imperial; the old-fashioned stock and open collar; the black and white checked trousers; the gaiters; and, last of all, the flat brimmed, carefully brushed, old-fashioned silk hat.  Mr. Blount gasped.

“Huh?” he said.

“Pardon me, my dear sir,” repeated the Major, blandly, smoothly, and with an air of—­well, not condescension, but gracious familiarity.  “Will you be so extremely kind as to inform me concerning the most direct route to the hotel or boarding house?”

The word “hotel” was the only part of this speech that struck home to “Redny’s” awed mind.

“Hotel?” he repeated, slowly.  “Why, yes, sir.  I’m goin’ right that way.  If you’ll git right into my barge I’ll fetch you there in ten minutes.”

There was enough in this reply, and the manner in which it was delivered, to have furnished the station idlers, in the ordinary course of events, with matter for gossip and discussion for a week.  Mr. Blount had not addressed a person as “sir” since he went to school.  But no one thought of this; all were too much overcome by the splendor of the Major’s presence.

“Thank you,” replied the Major.  “Thank you.  I am obliged to you, sir.  Augustus, you may place the baggage in this gentleman’s conveyance.”

Augustus was an elderly negro, very black as to face and a trifle shabby as to clothes, but with a shadow of his master’s gentility, like a reflected luster, pervading his person.  He bowed low, departed, and returned dragging a large, old style trunk, and carrying a plump valise.

“Augustus,” said the Major, “you may sit upon the seat with the driver.  That is,” he added, courteously, “if Mr.—­Mr.—­”

“Blount,” prompted the gratified “Redny.”

“If Mr. Blount will be good enough to permit you to do so.”

“Why, sartin.  Jump right up.  Giddap, you!”

There was but one passenger, besides the Major and Augustus, in the “depot wagon” that morning.  This passenger was Mrs. Polena Ginn, who had been to Brockton on a visit.  To Mrs. Polena the Major, raising his hat in a manner that no native of East Harniss could acquire by a lifetime of teaching, observed that it was a beautiful morning.  The flustered widow replied that it “was so.”  This was the beginning of a conversation that lasted until the “Central House” was reached, a conversation that left Polena impressed with the idea that her new acquaintance was as near the pink of perfection as mortal could be.