“Well, well, well!” mumbled one of the old gossips. “Will wonders never cease! Beats all creation how fortenit some folks be. Now looker this boy. Lost every dollar he hed in the world, hed to leave college an’ go ter work, an’ nobody ever s’posed we’d ever hear from him ag’in. Now here he turns up rich as mud an’ is comin’ back here to make a spread. I’ve spent sixty-seven years right here in Bloomfield, an’ I ain’t never hed no chance in the world. It’s all luck—all luck.” “Go on, Bill Kimball!” exclaimed old Jonas. “You’ve allus bin too lazy to draw your breath. You’ve spent your life a-loafin’, an’ you complain you ain’t never hed no chance. Now the town’s helpin’ ye, when you might be comfertable well off an’ able ter take keer of yerself.” “Ain’t never had no chance,” persisted Kimball doggedly. “Don’t you talk to me, Jonas Worthen! You was born to have luck.” “I started out in the world jest as poor as you did.” “Well, I’m glad one of the Merriwells is comin’ back to the old place,” said Lem Briggs, the storekeeper. “Is he merrid? I s’pose he is, or else he wouldn’t be havin’ the place fixed up.” Later in the day Bill Kimball was walking past a fine, old house amid some elms, about half a mile from the village. He stopped to stare at the house, where men were at work, when an ebony-faced young negro came from the stable and strolled out toward the road. “How de do?” saluted Kimball. “I kinder guess I know you. Ain’t you Toots?” “Dat’s my name, sar,” said the negro smilingly. “Why, bress mah soul! I believe yo’ is Mistah Kimball. I’s po’erful glad teh see yo’, Mistah Kimball.” “Well, I’m glad to see you back here, Toots. What’s goin’ on? Workmen slickin’ all up round the old place, hey?” “Kindah makin’ it presentable, sar.” “What are you doing here?” “I’s de ovahseer, sar,” was the proud answer. “Yo’ know Mistah Frank has done bought de ole place, an’ he’s gwine teh make it his home.” “When is he coming?” “Day after to-morrow, sar. To-morrow dey’s gwine teh decorate de church.” “Hey?” squawked Bill Kimball. “Goin’ to what?” “Decorate de church.” “What for?” “Fo’ de weddin’.” “Weddin’? weddin’?” gasped the old man. “Is there goin’ to be a weddin’?” “Yes, sar; Mistah Frank is gwine teh be married.” “Good land!” said Kimball, fanning himself with his straw hat. “That’ll be news for the folks! Who’s he goin’ ter marry?” “Handsomest gal in de worl’, sar—Miss Inza Burrage. Brack eyes, rosy cheeks, an’ de sweetes’ mouth you ebber see. Ki-yi! It’ll sho’ be a swell affaih fo’ dis town.” “Landy massy!” spluttered Kimball. “Won’t that stir the village up! Be they goin’ to settle down here?” “Not now, sar.” “They’re not?” “No, sar. Dey’re gwine teh be married heah an’ give a pahty in de old home to a lot ob deyer frien’s. Den dey’re gwine off ter Mexico, where Mistah Frank has one of de berry riches’ mines in de worl’.” “But they’re comin’ back?”