"Ovid," said Pansy, sharply, "there's nothing wrong with you except that--you haven't enough brains all by yourself. You need to be looked after ...and I'm going to do it." "Looked after?" "Ovid Nixon, do you like me well enough to marry me?" "I--" "Do you? Yes or no ... quick!" "Yes." "Then ask me," said Pansy. Presently the three emerged into the street from the deserted offices of Mr. Peaney. Scattergood Baines held in his hands two thousand dollars in bills, representing net profit on the transaction. He regarded the money with a frown. "Somethings got to be done to you to make you fit to tetch," he said to it. Out of an adjoining store came a young woman in a queer bonnet, with a tambourine in her hand. "Huh!" said Scattergood, and stopped her. "Salvation Army, hain't you?" "Yes, sir." "Hold it out," he said, motioning to the tambourine. She obeyed, and he dropped into it the package of bills, and, looking into her startled, almost frightened eyes, he said: "It come from fools to sharpers.... I calculate nothin' but a leetle salvation'll kill the cussedness in it.... Make it do all the salvagin' it kin...." Whereupon he passed on, leaving a bewildered woman to stare after him. Next morning, Scattergood, accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Ovid Nixon, alighted from the train in Coldriver. Deacon Pettybone happened to be standing on the depot platform. "Make you acquainted with Mis' Nixon," said Scattergood, with gravity. "She's what Ovid come down with.... Can't blame a young feller for forgittin' work a day or two when he's got him sich a wife.... Deacon, this here girl's performed a service for Coldriver. Increased our population by two--her and Ovid. And, Deacon, Ovid hain't the fust man that ever was made so's he was wuth countin' in the census by marryin' him a wife...." "Dummed if she hain't got red hair," was the deacon's astonished contribution. It was as near to congratulations as the deacon ever came. CHAPTER XII THE SON THAT WAS DEAD "The ox is dressed and hung," said Pliny Pickett, with the air of a man announcing that the country has been saved from destruction. "Uh!... How much 'd he dress?" asked Scattergood Baines, moving in his especially reinforced armchair until it creaked its protest. "Eight hunderd and forty-three--accordin' to Newt Patterson's scales." "Which hain't never been knowed to err on the side of overweight," said Scattergood, dryly. "The boys has got the oven fixed for roastin' him, and the band gits in on the mornin' train, failin' accidents, and the dec'rations is up in the taown hall--'n' now we kin git ready for a week of stiddy rain." "They's wuss things than rain," said Scattergood, "though at the minnit I don't call to mind what they be."