Nat was a notable personality in the village, and was the exclusive pride and perennial delight of every one along the coast. He was a composite of farmer, philosopher and clown; with the face of a contemplative monk and the manner of a harmless mountebank. He was very black and very bow-legged; the latter being accepted by him as a fortunate asset rather than a calamity. It served him as an individual trade mark in his calling, which was that of truck gardening. His vegetables, he declared, were unlike the product of any other planters of seeds; they were distinctive, facsimiles of himself, and he took great pleasure in making it known. Everybody knew his “bow-legged punkins an’ bow-legged egg-plants”; and no other vendor could boast of the “bow-legged butterbeans and fat bow-legged squash” like Nat’s. He peddled his seasonable wares through the village in a large, flat basket made of willow slats, placed on top of a clumsy sled built of rough-hewn cypress fence pickets, dragged by an unshorn, meditative old mule he called Maybe-so. Walking bare-footed Nat followed behind; his loose-fitting blue cottonade trousers flapping about his dusty ankles; a broad-brimmed Chinese-looking hat made of palmetto, tilted humorously on his round woolly head. As he went along, he kept up a confidential conversation with the mule, about the weather; the condition of the road; the pest of bugs on the young potato plants; or any subject that occupied his mind when he was not vociferating the virtues of his bow-legged merchandise to attract the attention of chance customers. He also had a company of two or three nondescript dogs following in his wake. They seemed to understand all his moods and movements; looking at him with rapt interest when he talked to them; and watching with appealing glances when he shouted some vehement command. They knew they were not to move another step when they heard him call to Maybe-so, and saw the old mule stop before the gate of one of his regular customers. They would sit down in the road precipitously and wait patiently while an argument ensued; and as soon as orders were given to march, they rose up with renewed anticipation; and with tails erect, they started off as soon as Maybe-so made the first step. If at any time they disregarded the rule, Nat would call to the mule to halt; the dogs would be reprimanded for being “too much in a hurry,” and would be told to “wait till Nat’s ready to go. Nat ain’ fol’rin’ you; you fol’rin’ _Nat_.” Whether they wanted to buy or not, the people came out to greet him as soon as they heard the sound of his superb voice. He would stand in the road and call out his rhythmic chant, announcing himself, his wares, his companionable mule and family of dogs: