Scattergood's specially reinforced chair creaked as he strained forward to pick up his shoepacs and draw them on. It required no small exertion, and he straightened up, red of face and panting a trifle. He walked up the street, crossed the bridge, and descended to the little room under the barber shop where the checker or cribbage championship of the state was decided daily. Two ancient citizens were playing checkers, while a third stood over them, watching with that thrilled concentration with which the ordinary person might watch an only son essaying to cross Niagara Falls on a tight rope. Scattergood knew better than to interrupt the game, so he stood by until, by a breath-taking triple jump, Old Man Bogle sent his antagonist down to defeat. Then, and only then, did Scattergood speak to the old gentleman who had been the spectator. "Morning Mr. Spackles," he said. "Mornin', Scattergood. See that last jump of Bogle's? I swanny if 'twan't about as clever a move as I see this year." "Mr. Spackles," said Scattergood, "I come down here to find out could I ask you some advice. You bein' experienced like you be, it 'peared to me like you was the one man that could help me out." "Um!..." grunted Mr. Spackles, his old blue eyes widening with the distinction of the moment. "If I kin be of any service to you, I calculate I'm willin'. 'Tain't often folks comes to me for advice any more, or anythin' else, for that matter. Guess they figger I'm too old to 'mount to anythin'." "Feel like takin' a mite of a walk?" "Who? Me? I'm skittisher'n a colt this mornin'. Bet I kin walk twenty mile 'fore sundown." They moved toward the door, but there Mr. Spackles paused to look back grandly upon the checker players. "Sorry I can't linger to watch you, boys," he said, loftily, "but they's important matters me and Scattergood got to discuss. Seems like he's feelin' the need of sound advice." When they were gone the checker players scrutinized each other, and then with one accord scrambled to the door and stared out after Scattergood and Mr. Spackles. "I swanny!" said Old Man Bogle. "What d'you figger Scattergood wanted of that ol' coot?" demanded Old Man Peterson. "Somethin' deep," hazarded Old Man Bogle. "I always did hold Spackles was a brainy cuss. Hain't he 'most as good a checker player as I be? What gits me, though, is how Scattergood come to pick him instid of me." "Huh!..." grunted Old Man Peterson, and they resumed their game. Scattergood walked along in silence for a few paces; then he regarded Mr. Spackles appraisingly. "Mr. Spackles," said he, deferentially, "I dunno when I come acrost a man that holds his years like you do. Mind if I ask you jest how old you be?" "Sixty-six year," said Spackles. "Wouldn't never 'a' b'lieved it," marveled Scattergood. "Wouldn't 'a' set you down for a day more 'n fifty-five or six, not with them clear eyes and them ruddy cheeks and the way you step out."