In a cane-bottomed chair beside the threshold of the post-office--a flimsy board building owing all its distinction, like a dirty uniform, to the magic influence of those two letters U.S.--sat Daddie Ingram during that social hour preceding the arrival of the mail. He himself owed much of his prestige to his association, as postmaster, with the Federal Government--that vast power which makes its influence felt even to the most remote hamlets. He had acquired a certain dignity because of his affiliation with the Eagle Itself. The hot sun had made the roads which centered here dusty. Even the droning insects became half-hearted. Flies moved listlessly and became lazily indifferent to the danger of hostile hands moving against them with no spirit. Men slouched up to the weather-worn porch and sank down with a grunt, drawing their knees up and tilting their hats down. Some of them whittled, but none of them were sufficiently inspired to attempt any creative effort, unless perhaps a long spindling toothpick sharpened with extreme care to a needle point. Over his befogged spectacles, Daddie Ingram’s faded blue eyes brightened a trifle as they observed the approach of Mr. Howe down the road. He spat and shifted his quid in order to be in readiness for a conversation which he had anticipated for several hours. He introduced his subject without preliminaries as soon as Howe was safely within range. “Hear that young man up at yo’ house had a sort of run-in with Bud Childers last night.” Howe was surprised--unpleasantly surprised. He had rather hoped the affair might not become current gossip. The moment this became public property it complicated matters a good deal. “What did you hear?” questioned Howe without committing himself. “Wull, I heard on two or three sides. Yes, suh, on two or three sides.” Pausing a moment he added, as though after mature reflection: “I heard it on two or three sides.” “Childers been talking?” “Ain’t no one heard him doin’ it,” replied Daddie cautiously. “Fust pusson I seen who knowed anything ’bout it was little Tom Culley. Said old Widder Kester giv’ him the devil this mornin’ for carryin’ a lie ’bout her bein’ sick. Tom said he told her who give him the message. Tom he went to Bud an’ Bud was fightin’ mad--all riled up about it. Then Tom ’lowed he was gonter cut up thet young man up to yo’ house.” “Well?” “Bud’s bad,” drawled Daddie Ingram. “Yessuh, he’s bad. Yessuh, he’s bad medicine. That young man up to yo’ house might erve needed a gun and a good un.” Howe spoke deliberately now. “Mr. Allston is just out of the army. He has a gun and he knows how to use it.” “Wull, he might erve needed a good un. Yessuh, he might erve.” “He will use it--if it’s necessary. But he isn’t looking for any trouble which isn’t forced on him.” “Looks like an awful nice feller,” admitted Daddie. “That clever an’ friendly. I’m powerful glad he’s got a gun. Better carry it, too.”