“Well,” says Mark, “what’ll we d-do this evenin’?” Before anybody could answer a man came through the gate and sort of shuffled up the walk toward the porch. He was nigh seven foot high and he wore enough whiskers to stop a mattress—the kind of whiskers that grow out every which way and waves around frantic when the wind blows. They made his head look as if it was about as big around as a bushel basket—but from there down you couldn’t hardly see him at all. He had a sort of look like a pumpkin lantern bein’ carried on the end of a long pole. “Here’s Silas Doolittle Bugg,” says I. We didn’t say anything till he got up to the steps. Then, all of a sudden, he seemed to see us and stopped and reached for a handful of them whiskers. Sort of gathered together all he could in one grab and jerked ’em like he aimed to haul ’em out by the roots. “Howdy!” says he. “Howdy!” says we. He kind of leaned over like he was breaking in two in the middle and pointed a finger nigh six inches long right in Mark’s face. “You’re the Tidd boy,” he says, in a voice like shooting off a giant firecracker. He didn’t speak; he _exploded_! There wasn’t any use in Mark’s trying to deny it. Nobody would have believed him, so he says he _was_ the Tidd boy. “Pa home?” says Silas. “Yes, sir,” says Mark. “I come to see him,” says Silas, exploding it again. But then the queerest thing happened to his voice. It sort of faded away. It got littler and littler. “But,” he says, turning around on his heels, “I don’t calc’late I’ll wait. I guess I’ll be goin’. Somehow it don’t seem’s though I needed to see him to amount to anythin’. I guess maybe he druther not see me.... Say, young feller, how’s he feelin’ to-night? Savage or jest so-so?” “I don’t call to m-m-mind a time when Dad was s-savage,” says Mark. “You figger I better see him, then,” says Silas. “I don’t f-figger he’ll harm you none.” Silas gives out a big sigh that came all the way from his shoes. “I’m plumb scairt,” says he. “I’ll call him,” says Mark. “No. No. Whoa there, boy. Hold on a minnit. Lemme git ready first. Seems like I got to brace myself for this meetin’. Sure he’s feelin’ mild and gentle?” “As a lamb,” says Mark. “Wisht I could git a peek at him before I tackle him,” says Silas. “Just walk around and look through the kitchen window,” says Mark. Silas stood still a minute, and then he tip-toed around the house, and we saw him put his nose against the window and stand there, staring in. In a couple of jiffies he was back again. “Looks stern and kind of war-like,” he says. “Dad never bit nobody,” says Mark. “You calc’late it’s safe for me to see him?” “Course,” says Mark. “Well,” says Silas, letting off another of those big sighs, “I guess it’s got to be did. Hain’t no way of puttin’ it off; but, gosh! how I dread it!”