He was gossiping with Sam Clark, Luke Dawson, Jackson Elder of the planing-mill, Chet Dashaway, Dave Dyer, Harry Haydock, and Ezra Stowbody, president of the Ionic bank.

Ezra Stowbody was a troglodyte.  He had come to Gopher Prairie in 1865.  He was a distinguished bird of prey—­swooping thin nose, turtle mouth, thick brows, port-wine cheeks, floss of white hair, contemptuous eyes.  He was not happy in the social changes of thirty years.  Three decades ago, Dr. Westlake, Julius Flickerbaugh the lawyer, Merriman Peedy the Congregational pastor and himself had been the arbiters.  That was as it should be; the fine arts—­medicine, law, religion, and finance—­recognized as aristocratic; four Yankees democratically chatting with but ruling the Ohioans and Illini and Swedes and Germans who had ventured to follow them.  But Westlake was old, almost retired; Julius Flickerbaugh had lost much of his practice to livelier attorneys; Reverend (not The Reverend) Peedy was dead; and nobody was impressed in this rotten age of automobiles by the “spanking grays” which Ezra still drove.  The town was as heterogeneous as Chicago.  Norwegians and Germans owned stores.  The social leaders were common merchants.  Selling nails was considered as sacred as banking.  These upstarts—­the Clarks, the Haydocks—­had no dignity.  They were sound and conservative in politics, but they talked about motor cars and pump-guns and heaven only knew what new-fangled fads.  Mr. Stowbody felt out of place with them.  But his brick house with the mansard roof was still the largest residence in town, and he held his position as squire by occasionally appearing among the younger men and reminding them by a wintry eye that without the banker none of them could carry on their vulgar businesses.

As Carol defied decency by sitting down with the men, Mr. Stowbody was piping to Mr. Dawson, “Say, Luke, when was’t Biggins first settled in Winnebago Township?  Wa’n’t it in 1879?”

“Why no ’twa’n’t!” Mr. Dawson was indignant.  “He come out from Vermont in 1867—­no, wait, in 1868, it must have been—­and took a claim on the Rum River, quite a ways above Anoka.”

“He did not!” roared Mr. Stowbody.  “He settled first in Blue Earth County, him and his father!”

("What’s the point at issue?”) Carol whispered to Kennicott.

("Whether this old duck Biggins had an English setter or a Llewellyn.  They’ve been arguing it all evening!”)

Dave Dyer interrupted to give tidings, “D’ tell you that Clara Biggins was in town couple days ago?  She bought a hot-water bottle—­expensive one, too—­two dollars and thirty cents!”

“Yaaaaaah!” snarled Mr. Stowbody.  “Course.  She’s just like her grandad was.  Never save a cent.  Two dollars and twenty—­thirty, was it?—­two dollars and thirty cents for a hot-water bottle!  Brick wrapped up in a flannel petticoat just as good, anyway!”

“How’s Ella’s tonsils, Mr. Stowbody?” yawned Chet Dashaway.