Schofields' Henry drew his sleeve across his eyes. “He was the only man in this whole city that didn't jab and nag at me when I done my best,” he exclaimed, with an increasing break in his utterance. “Many a good word I've had from him when nobody in town done nothin' but laugh an' rile an' badger me about my--my bell.” And Schofields' Henry began to cry openly. “He was a great hand with the chuldern,” said one man. “Always have something to say to 'em to make 'em laugh when he went by. 'Talk more to them 'n he would to grown folks. Yes, sir.” “They knowed _him_ all right,” added another. “I reckon all of us did, little and big.” “It's goin' to seem mighty empty around here,” said Ross Schofield. “What's goin' to become o' the 'Herald' and the party in this district? Where's the man to run either of 'em now. Like as not,” he concluded desperately, “the election'll go against us in the fall.” Dibb Zane choked over his four fingers. “We might's well bust up this dab-dusted ole town ef he's gone.” “I don't know what's come over that Cynthy Tipworthy,” said the landlord. “She's waited table on him last two year, and her brother Bud works at the 'Herald' office. She didn't say a word--only looked and looked and looked--like a crazy woman; then her and Bud went off together to hunt in the woods. They just tuck hold of each other's hands like----” “That ain't nothin',” Homer Tibbs broke in. “You'd ort to've saw old Miz Hathaway, that widder woman next door to us, when she heard it. He had helped her to git her pension; and she tuck on worse 'n' anything I ever hear--lot worse 'n' when Hathaway died.” “I reckon there ain't many crazier than them two Bowlders, father and son,” said the postmaster, wiping the drops from his beard as he set his glass on the bar. “They rid into town like a couple of wild Indians, the old man beatin' that gray mare o' theirn till she was one big welt, and he ain't natcherly no cruel man, either. I reckon Lige Willetts better keep out of Hartley's way.” “I keep out of no man's way,” cried a voice behind him. Turning, they saw Lige standing on the threshold of the door that led to the street. In his hand he held the bridle of the horse he had ridden across the sidewalk, and that now stood panting, with lowered head, half through the doorway, beside his master. Lige was hatless, splashed with mud from head to foot; his jaw was set, his teeth ground together; his eyes burned under red lids, and his hair lay tossed and damp on his brow. “I keep out of no man's way,” he repeated, hoarsely.