"That's so. Guess he's a teacher." "Looks like a moneyed cuss." "Bos'n, I guess." He knew the one who spoke last--Freeme Cole, a man who was the fighting wonder of Howard's boyhood, now degenerated into a stoop-shouldered, faded, garrulous, and quarrelsome old man. Yet there was something epic in the old man's stories, something enthralling in the dramatic power of recital. Over by the blacksmith shop the usual game of "quaits" was in progress, and the drug-clerk on the corner was chasing a crony with the squirt-pump with which he was about to wash the windows. A few teams stood ankle-deep in the mud, tied to the fantastically gnawed pine pillars of the wooden awnings. A man on a load of hay was "jawing" with the attendant of the platform scales, who stood below, pad and pencil in hand. "Hit 'im! hit 'im! Jump off and knock 'im!" suggested a bystander, jovially. Howard knew the voice. "Talk's cheap. Takes money to buy whiskey," he said, when the man on the load repeated his threat of getting off and whipping the scales-man. "You're William McTurg," Howard said, coming up to him. "I am, sir," replied the soft-voiced giant, turning and looking down on the stranger, with an amused twinkle in his deep brown eyes. He stood as erect as an Indian, though his hair and beard were white. "I'm Howard McLane." "Ye begin t' look it," said McTurg, removing his right hand from his pocket. "How are yeh?" "I'm first-rate. How's mother and Grant?" "Saw 'm ploughing corn as I came down. Guess he's all right. Want a boost?" "Well, yes. Are you down with a team?" "Yep. 'Bout goin' home. Climb right in. That's my rig, right there," nodding at a sleek bay colt hitched in a covered buggy. "Heave y'r grip under the seat." They climbed into the seat after William had lowered the buggy-top and unhitched the horse from the post. The loafers were mildly curious. Guessed Bill had got hooked onto by a lightnin'-rod peddler, or somethin' o' that kind. "Want to go by river, or 'round by the hills?" "Hills, I guess." The whole matter began to seem trivial, as if he had been away only for a month or two. William McTurg was a man little given to talk. Even the coming back of a nephew did not cause any flow of questions or reminiscences. They rode in silence. He sat a little bent forward, the lines held carelessly in his hands, his great lion-like head swaying to and fro with the movement of the buggy. As they passed familiar spots, the younger man broke the silence with a question. "That's old man McElvaine's place, ain't it?" "Yep." "Old man living?" "I guess he is. Husk more corn'n any man he c'n hire." In the edge of the village they passed an open lot on the left, marked with circus-rings of different eras. "There's the old ball-ground. Do they have circuses on it just the same as ever?" "Just the same." "What fun that field calls up! The games of ball we used to have! Do you play yet?"