That same night down to the store Miller took me aside. It seems the lightnin'-rod man had been soundin' him. It really appeared he was more anxious to buy land than he was to sell rods. He'd made Miller the same offer he'd made me, and Miller was crazy to sell. He said he never expected to get so good an offer again, but that fool paper of Silas's stood in the way, and he couldn't do a thing with Silas. “If I only hadn't taken his blame dollar, I'd tell him to whistle!” said Miller, groanin'. “Did that simple cuss give you a dollar, too?” I says. “Simple? Why, George, his option is almost as good as a deed. It's a contract for sale, him to fix the price at any figure he chooses to name above two an acre. We've accepted a consideration. I ain't sure he's so simple, after all.” “What can we do, Miller?” I asked. “There's only one thing, George, that I know of,” says Miller. “We must get him adjudged insane, and recover them options that way; and we mustn't lose no time about it, either, or that sucker will buy other land.” It looked like what Miller feared would happen, for when the lightnin'-rod man found he couldn't do business with me or Miller, he went to Whittaker. Naturally Whittaker was wild to sell, but he was up against Silas. The lightnin'-rodder was a sport, all right. He said he'd always counted it a fair test of a man's ability to sell rods, but he was findin' there was stiffer business propositions, and he couldn't afford to let no transaction get the better of him. He was goin' to squat right there and buy his sheep farm if it took all summer. You see he had his nerve with him. And through all them days of stress, when it looked like his neighbors might mob him any minute, Silas preserved the even tenor of his way, like the fellow says, mindin' his chickens, and goin' around serene and ca'm, at perfect peace with the world. But of course things couldn't go on like that long. Something had to be done. It was Miller thought of what he had ought to do—Miller and his lightnin'-rod man. They got up a petition and sent it to Pendagrast. They reminded him how friendly he'd be'n with Silas, and urged him to join us in sendin' our poor friend to a private asylum for the insane, where he could have the medical attention he was requirin' so much, and be restored to such hen sense as the Creator had endowed him with in the beginnin'. It showed what a simple genuine soul Pendagrast was when inside of a week his big yellow car came scootin' into the valley and drawed up in front of Miller Brothers' store. “Where's my poor friend?” he says, after we had shook hands all round. “Yes,” he says, wipin' his eyes, “it's best I should take him where he can be confined and have medical attention.” We sent for Silas. Say, it was touchin' to see them two meet and clasp hands, each lookin' innocenter and simpler than the other, and like butter would keep indefinite in their mouths.