John Tucker was perhaps the only person in Cyrus who knew nothing of the fateful telegram. He was having a suffering time, poor John, with rheumatism. He had struggled valiantly against it through the long winter and the perilous combination of extremes that we call spring in New England. He had managed to keep the knowledge of his ailment from Kitty, and had gone to the station in all weathers, steadfastly refusing to allow her to meet "them pesky trains." Now, however, when "the season of snows and sins" was over, and summer was here with her lap full of roses, the enemy clutched John Tucker in an iron grip and held him fast. He struggled out every day, and crept over to Ross House, where he sat, in stable or harness room, directing his son Tim, who did his fourteen-year-old best, but found "Pa" hard to satisfy. Tim felt fully equal to driving Old Crummles, or even Dan, to meet the trains, but was bidden briefly to "shut up" when he volunteered to do so. Kitty was all eagerness to drive herself, but John's face of misery at the suggestion smote her heart, and she engaged Amos Barrell, the blacksmith's stalwart son, to perform this duty, and to help in the stable when more help was needed. Amos was usually a silent youth, with little more to say than "Yep" and "Nope" and "That so?" but about this time he became conversational, not to say inquisitive. He wanted to know if they was any coaches in town. What was that big wagon there all kivered up? Was that a coach? Warn't? Well, he didn't hardly think--some said there was a coach in the stable out to Gaylords'. Was it sold, think, or was it there yet? Gramp said there used to be one to the Maller House when he was a boy, but he never heard of their puttin' more'n four hosses to it, Gramp said. Gramp allowed mebbe---- "Shut up!" said John Tucker. "Know what that means?" Visitors came to the harness room, as usual; more than usual, in fact. John Tucker, his bones like red-hot iron within him, thought they came like grasshoppers in a hayfield. Orison Wesley sidled in, lank and lantern-jawed; sat upon a keg and sympathized with John's sufferings. He knew what 'twas; ketched you in the small of your back--gorry! he guessed he'd used a case of Carter's Chlorodyne Liniment last winter. The woman just slabbed it on; slabbed it on, sir. That was right; you wanted something that s'arched your vitals. "How many hosses you drivin' now, Tucker?" "I ain't drivin' none!" growled John, one eye on the clock. "That's right! but I mean when you have your health? Lemme see! You've got three here, ain't you?" John grunted assent. "Drive 'em single mostly, do ye? Ever hitch 'em up together?" What ye mean? Three hosses together? No! did ever you go up to the Asylum? Well, I wouldn't if I was you; they mightn't let you out again."