“I’m the pickedest old bach in town, so set that I even do my own cooking, Hime,” he said. “It is all about the same as it used to be at the old place. There’s plenty of room in the barn for all this,” he nodded toward the waggons, “and plenty to eat for us all--I guess,” he added, with a facetious look at the elephant, and that started the laugh again. Hiram turned to the crowd as though to address them, but he clutched at his throat, shook his head pathetically, and stumbled toward the big waggon. “You ain’t the worst feller in the world, Hime,” called a voice encouragingly. ’Twas Marriner Amazeen’s. “But you can’t sass us here in P’lermo any more’n you useter could.” There was a general mumble, in a more hospitable tone, for the prodigal’s evident contrition had touched them. He threw up his hand and again shook his head despondently. “It’s a blamed queer outfit to haul into any man’s door-yard, Phin,” he said at last, with wistful apology, as he noticed his brother looking at the elephant with no very eager enthusiasm; “but I’ll fix it right with you.” He did not remount his seat, but secured a hook from under the big waggon, walked to the elephant and stuck the hook into a slit in the beast’s ragged ear. With a creak and a groan the parade started, the weary horses dragging at the heels of the scuffing pachyderm. Chattering boys spatted along barefoot in the dusty road before, beside, behind; the villagers attended along the sidewalk, and women stood at front gates holding up the little ones to see. The Squire plodded at his brother’s side, his hands behind his back, and Eli waddled near with cautious eye bent on the huge animal. And thus, after twenty-five years of wandering, returned Palermo’s queer genius, hot-headed Hiram Look, a showman from the time he took pins for admission from his schoolfellows at the door of a tent made of shorts’ sacks, and that was when he wore dresses and had his flaxen hair combed in a “Boston.” A little way beyond Brickett’s store the elms grew close and tall, stretching their graceful arms across the street. Back from these elms on a gentle slope of lawn stood the Judge Collamore Willard house, the mansion of the village, a square structure of brick, dyed by many years of weather to a sombre red. The inmates of this dignified house evidently had been affected by the general excitement caused by the halt of the caravan in front of Brickett’s store. A tall, gaunt old man, whose frock coat flapped about his skinny legs, hurried down the gravelled path to the street, and as the head of the parade approached he opened the iron gate and came out to the side of the highway. “What’s all this?” he piped in falsetto, addressing one of the villagers who were marching along the sidewalk. “Hime Look’s come back and brought his circus,” said the passer. The old man started, and his thin lips closed viciously. As the showman’s eyes fell upon the old man his face also grew set and hard.