General conversation, after this laconic start, died suddenly. Everybody stood and looked at everybody else for a few moments, and then Mr. Sikes had a happy inspiration. He began shoveling coal from the scuttle into the already blushing stove, making a great deal of racket. The others watched him intently, as if they never had seen anything so interesting as a stove being stuffed with fuel. “And all sorts of live stock,” added Mr. Link, apparently startled into speech by the closing of the stove door. “From Hopkinsville, did you say?” inquired Mr. Sage politely, turning to Mr. Gooch. “Yes,” said Mr. Gooch succinctly. “Ah, a—er—very enterprising town—very enterprising. Ahem!” “Where is it?” asked Mrs. Sage, who by this time had seated herself in a rocking-chair, with her rubber boots well advanced toward the stove. “I guess you haven’t lived in this part of the country very long,” said Mr. Gooch condescendingly. “Oh, haven’t I? I’ve been here nearly six months—one hundred and thirty-two days, to be exact.” She glanced at the clock on the bracket between the windows. “Lacking two hours and twelve minutes,” she went on. “We came down on the local that’s due here at 9:14, but it was twenty-eight minutes late.” “Ahem!” coughed Mr. Sage, discreetly. “Well, if you will excuse me,” began Mrs. Gooch, withdrawing her gaze from the lady’s boots, “I guess I’ll run upstairs and see my sister-in-law.” “Ain’t Serepty up there?” asked Mr. Link quickly. “Yep,” replied Mr. Sikes. “You needn’t worry, Silas,” he added significantly. “You stay right here, Ida,” ordered Mr. Gooch. “I’m not going to have you insulted by this woman they’re talking so much about. You’d think she was Queen Victoria or somebody like that.” “Ahem!” coughed Mr. Sage, this time in a suave, conciliatory manner—if it is possible to cough suavely. “It is my practice, no matter what the weather may be, to call at the earliest opportunity upon any stranger who may arrive in our little community. Your nephew is the latest stranger in town, I should say—eh, Mrs. Goops?” “My—my what?” “Gooch is my name,” broke in her husband tartly. “G, double o, c, h.” “I do wish, Herbert dear,” said Mrs. Sage languidly, “you would try to remember Gooch.” “I beg pardon. A slip of the tongue. I was about to inquire about your dear brother, Mrs. Gooch. How is he?” “I didn’t know there was anything the matter with Oliver.” “There isn’t anything the matter with him,” said Mrs. Sage, “that a good, stiff drink of whiskey won’t cure.” Then catching the look in the other woman’s eye, she explained: “Oh, I’m not a native, you know. I come from Chicago—God bless it!” “Ahem!” coughed her husband. “I suppose Sister Grimes will be down in a few minutes, Joseph?” “Just depends,” replied Mr. Sikes, somewhat grimly. “Wonderful woman, indeed. Quite indispensable at a time like this,” continued the minister. “She’s just as handy at a funeral,” supplemented Mr. Link, in the hushed voice of an undertaker.