Crupp departed, encountering on the way the wide-open countenance of Tom Adams, who was waiting for Deacon Jones’s mail. The two pastors preserved silence, that of Mr. Brown being extremely dignified, with a visible trace of acerbity, while that of Mr. Wedgewell was strongly suggestive of mental unquiet. The distribution of the small mail, which had arrived soon after the conversation began, gave everybody an excuse to depart--an excuse of which most of them availed themselves at once, Squire Tomple having first changed the direction of the conversation by inquiring particularly of Father Baguss as to the number and probable weight of the porkers which the old man was fattening for the winter market. The subject lasted only until the two men reached the door, however, and then each sympathized with the other over the wounds received at the hands, or tongue, of the unsentimental and irreligious Crupp. Yet the more they talked of Crupp, the less they seemed to realize their pain. Tom Adams went straight to his employer’s store, and exclaimed, not in his usual ingenuous manner, “Deacon, old Berry won’t take that load of bricks unless he gets ’em right off; I guess I’ll take ’em right out to him. It’s a long trip, but there’s three hours yet ’fore dark.” “Be sure you do, then, Thomas,” said the deacon. Tom was soon in his wagon, and going toward the brick-yard at a livelier rate than was consistent with the proper care of horses with a long, heavy pull before them. The bricks were loaded with apparent regard to count, but not in good order, and, as Tom followed the road to old Berry’s, he soliloquized: “I ort to be able to ketch him after I deliver the bricks, but what in thunder am I to say to him? Like enough he’ll knock me down if I don’t look out. That’s just the notion, I _de_-clare! I can knock _him_ down, and put him right in the wagon and bring him back; the joltin’ would fetch him to and clear his head, like it’s done mine often enough when I’ve been in his fix. But, hang it, what a ridick’lus goose-chase it does look like!” Meanwhile the Reverend Timotheus Brown had limped down the main street, looking a little more unapproachable than usual. As he reached the edge of the town, however, where there began the low plain which led to the river, he quickened his pace somewhat, and he did not stop until he reached the river. Upon a raft sat a man fishing, and near by a canoe was tied; in this latter the preacher seated himself, having first untied it. “Hello, there! What are you a-doin’ with my dug-out?” shouted the fisherman. “The Lord hath need of it!” roared the old divine, picking up the paddle. “Well, I’ll be----!” exclaimed the man; “if that _ain’t_ the coolest! The Lord’ll get a duckin’, I reckon, for that’s the _wobbliest_ canoe. I don’t know, though; the old fellow paddles as if he were used to it.”