The driver of the rig he immediately recognized as a former boss-canvasman answering to the name of Saginaw Red. In the old days this Saginaw had been employed by one of the circuses for which the New Yorker also had worked. The recognition was mutual. Naturally the two of them renewed their ancient acquaintance and a flow of reminiscence started. As their buggy reached the edge of the town the driver halted it while a funeral procession bound for the cemetery passed through an intersecting street. It wasn’t much of a funeral procession. Behind the rusty, closed carriage containing the pall-bearers followed a dingy, glass-walled hearse and behind that, in turn, came four more closed carriages presumably containing mourners and friends of the deceased, and that was all. Pointing to the cavalcade and employing the vernacular of their former calling, the manager addressed his companion: “Well, Saginaw,” he said, “what do you think of the grand free street parade?” “It’s a frost,” said Saginaw; “only one open den.” § 124 Absolutely Nothing to Debate The official peacemaker, there is one in every community, and sometimes unthinking people call him a butter-in, was progressing on his homeward way. Of a sudden the loose prehensile ears of the pedestrian were assailed by sounds which to his eager perception betokened a bitter quarrel between a man and woman who stood on the porch of a vine-clad cottage. Without a moment’s hesitation he opened the yard gate and hurried toward the seemingly belligerent pair. “Tut, tut!” he cried. “Tut, tut, my friends, this will never do. Pray cease this unseemly argument.” The couple turned toward him. It was the man who spoke: “What business of yours is it, comin’ bustin’ in here a-tut-tutting like a gas engine? Besides this here ain’t no argument.” “Yes, but I heard——” began the peacemaker. “Never mind what you heard,” broke in the husband. “To be an argument there’s got to be a difference of opinion, ain’t they?” “Yes, there has,” conceded the peacemaker. “Well, they ain’t no difference of opinion here,” said the man. “My wife thinks I ain’t going to give her none of my week’s wages and I know durned well I ain’t!” § 125 Keeping It in the Family The proprietor of a small general store in a remote New England district sat at the doorway of his establishment industriously whittling. A middle-aged native drove up in an antiquated car and halted. “Hello, Eth,” he said. “Hello, Wes,” answered back the storekeeper. “Wall, Eth,” said the newcomer, “you said I couldn’t dew it, but, by Judas Priest, I done it!” “You done whut?” asked the storekeeper. “Sold that there old crow-bait mare of mine—that’s whut I done,” said Wes exultingly. “Wall, you air the smart one!” cried the astonished Eth admiringly. “She wuzn’t wuth nothin’. Whut did ye sell her fur?”