We had left home early because of Len’s prediction that we should have to walk after reaching Red Hog Gap, the entrance to Silver Valley. “But we’ll be in two miles o’ the graveyard then,” he said, “an’ can pick it up in no time.” Uncle Nathe’s farm lay in Silver Valley township only four miles, by crow’s wing, northwest of mine, but the descent over cliffs and crags was hazardous, and we had set off in exactly the opposite direction, walking the two miles down to Beebread, where Arnold Weaver was waiting on the new highway with his car--the first automobile to become a local pride in our part of the mountains. We soon sailed over the few miles of highway and reached Scatter, the next railroad-station below Beebread, where we turned into the narrow mountain road leading to Uncle Nathe’s country. Here we began to come upon people who were walking to the funeral, and it was here that our car, through Len’s cordiality, became so firmly packed. He extended invitations until the seats, the floor, and the running-boards would hold no more. “You’re payin’ fer the whole car,” he said, “an’ might as well git yer money’s worth.” We were bouncing heavily along over the rutty road when ahead of us we saw a young man whose brisk step was certainly not of the highlands. There were various unsuccessful conjectures as to his identity, and suddenly Len called out: “Hey, Arn, stop yer shooter! It’s Ann Lindsay’s boy!” “He’d have to set ’tween yer big toe an’ the long un,” said Arn. “I ain’t goin’ to stop no more.” “But he’s come all the way from C’lumby to be at Uncle Nathe’s buryin’.” “He didn’t walk only from Scatter.” “I’ll jump out an’ let him set in my place.” “You ain’t got any place. You’re settin’ on the tip aidge o’ nothin’.” But Arn stopped the car. “Here, Bake,” said Len, “I’m gittin’ out, an’ you hop in. Reckon you know me?” “Len Merlin!” cried the stranger. “You caught that fox yet?” “No, he’s waitin’ fer ye.” “Can’t get him this trip. Got to hurry back. Go on, Arn, with your baggage. I’m walking to rest myself. Been on the train since last night. I’ll see you all over the hill.” His refusal of the “seat” was positive, and we moved on, but not far. We were climbing the hill leading to Red Hog Gap, and Lea’s prediction came true. The car refused to take the last lap over the hill, though we gave it an opportunity to do its best, by dropping out and scattering as readily as overripe plums from a suddenly shaken bough. With good cheer we began our walk to the graveyard. When nearly there we were overtaken by Bake Lindsay, and Len picked up their broken conversation. “What yer hurryin’ to git back fer? You ain’t been in sence when?” “Not since I was married,” said Lindsay, “and that’s five years. I started soon as I heard about Uncle Nathe.” “Is he really a nephew of Mr. Ponder?” I asked of the woman walking nearest to me, for with the whole country calling him “uncle,” the blood-kin were left without distinction.