“I mean the springs on this carriage,” she explained. “Last time I lent it to anybody--Solon Davis, 'twas--he said the bolts underneath was pretty nigh rusted out, and about all that held the wagon part on was its own weight. So we'll have to be kind of careful.” “Well--I--swan--to--MAN!” was Mr. Bangs's sole comment on the amazing disclosure; however, as an expression of concentrated and profound disgust it was quite sufficient. He spoke but once during the remainder of the trip to the “Center.” Then, when his passenger begged to know if “that Whittaker man” had been well since she left, he shouted: “Yes--EVER since,” and relapsed into his former gloomy silence. The widow's stop at the Atwood house, which was in the immediate rear of the Atwood store, was of a half hour's duration. Bailey refused to leave the seat of the sulky and sat there, speaking to no one; not even replying to the questions of a group of loungers who gathered to inspect the ancient vehicle, and professed to be in doubt as to whether it had been washed in with the tide or been “left” to him in a will. At last Debby made her appearance, her arms filled with newspapers. The latter she piled under the carriage seat, and then climbed to her former place beside the driver. Henry, in response to a slap from the reins, got under way once more. The axles squeaked and screamed. “Gee!” cried one youngster, from the steps of the store. “It's the steam calliope. When's the rest of the show comin'?” “Hi!” yelled another. “See how close they're hugged up together. Ain't they lovin'! It's a weddin'!” “Shut up!” roared the tortured Bailey, whose hat had blown back into the body of the sulky, leaving his bald head exposed to the cutting wind. The audience begged him to give them a lock of his hair, and added other remarks of a personal nature concerning the youth and beauty of the bridal couple and their chariot. Mr. Bangs was in a state of dumb frenzy. Debby, who, without her trumpet, had heard nothing of all this, was smiling and garrulous. “I found all the papers,” she said. “They're right under the seat. I'm goin' to look 'em over so's to have the interestin' parts all ready to show Miss Dorcas when we get home. Ain't it nice I found 'em?” In spite of her driver's remonstrances, unheard because of the nonadjustment of the trumpet, she reached under the seat and brought out the pile of Blazeton weeklies. With her feet upon the pile to keep it from blowing away, she proceeded to unfold one of the papers. It crackled and snapped in the wind like a loose mainsail. “Keep that dratted thing out of my face, won't you?” shrieked the agonized Bailey. “How'm I goin' to see to steer with that smackin' me between the eyes every other second?” “Hey? Did you speak to me?” asked the widow sweetly. “Did I SPEAK? No, I screeched! What in tunket--”