“Well, don’t forget to see people as other folks see them as they are!  They have the stuff.  Did you know that Percy Bresnahan came from here?  Born and brought up here!”

“Bresnahan?”

“Yes—­you know—­president of the Velvet Motor Company of Boston, Mass.—­make the Velvet Twelve—­biggest automobile factory in New England.”

“I think I’ve heard of him.”

“Sure you have.  Why, he’s a millionaire several times over!  Well, Perce comes back here for the black-bass fishing almost every summer, and he says if he could get away from business, he’d rather live here than in Boston or New York or any of those places.  He doesn’t mind Chet’s undertaking.”

“Please!  I’ll—­I’ll like everybody!  I’ll be the community sunbeam!”

He led her to the Dawsons.

Luke Dawson, lender of money on mortgages, owner of Northern cut-over land, was a hesitant man in unpressed soft gray clothes, with bulging eyes in a milky face.  His wife had bleached cheeks, bleached hair, bleached voice, and a bleached manner.  She wore her expensive green frock, with its passementeried bosom, bead tassels, and gaps between the buttons down the back, as though she had bought it second-hand and was afraid of meeting the former owner.  They were shy.  It was “Professor” George Edwin Mott, superintendent of schools, a Chinese mandarin turned brown, who held Carol’s hand and made her welcome.

When the Dawsons and Mr. Mott had stated that they were “pleased to meet her,” there seemed to be nothing else to say, but the conversation went on automatically.

“Do you like Gopher Prairie?” whimpered Mrs. Dawson.

“Oh, I’m sure I’m going to be ever so happy.”

“There’s so many nice people.”  Mrs. Dawson looked to Mr. Mott for social and intellectual aid.  He lectured: 

“There’s a fine class of people.  I don’t like some of these retired farmers who come here to spend their last days—­especially the Germans.  They hate to pay school-taxes.  They hate to spend a cent.  But the rest are a fine class of people.  Did you know that Percy Bresnahan came from here?  Used to go to school right at the old building!”

“I heard he did.”

“Yes.  He’s a prince.  He and I went fishing together, last time he was here.”

The Dawsons and Mr. Mott teetered upon weary feet, and smiled at Carol with crystallized expressions.  She went on: 

“Tell me, Mr. Mott:  Have you ever tried any experiments with any of the new educational systems?  The modern kindergarten methods or the Gary system?”

“Oh.  Those.  Most of these would-be reformers are simply notoriety-seekers.  I believe in manual training, but Latin and mathematics always will be the backbone of sound Americanism, no matter what these faddists advocate—­heaven knows what they do want—­knitting, I suppose, and classes in wiggling the ears!”

The Dawsons smiled their appreciation of listening to a savant.  Carol waited till Kennicott should rescue her.  The rest of the party waited for the miracle of being amused.