Late that afternoon Lou’s prophecy was fulfilled. A wagon going down the Creek with a load of supplies for the distillery stopped at the mill shed and the stranger began climbing carefully down over the wheels. Budd Wilson on his high seat winked and nodded at Mr. Matthews and his son, as though it was the greatest joke of the season. “Hold those horses, driver. Hold them tight; tight, sir.” “Got ’em, Mister,” responded Budd promptly. The mules stood with drooping heads and sleepy eyes, the lines under their feet. The gentleman was feeling carefully about the hub of the wheel with a foot that, stretch as he might, could not touch it by a good six inches. “That’s right, man, right,” he puffed. “Hold them tight; tight. Start now, break a leg sure, sure. Then what would Sarah and the girls do? Oh, blast it all, where is that step? Can’t stay here all day. Bring a ladder. Bring a high chair, a table, a box, a big box, a—heh—heh—Look out, I say, look out! Blast it all, what do you mean?” This last was called forth by Young Matt lifting the little man bodily to the ground, as an ordinary man would lift a child. To look up at the young giant, the stranger tipped back his head, until his shining silk hat was in danger of falling in the dirt. “Bless my soul, what a specimen! What a specimen!” Then with a twinkle in his eye, “Which one of the boys are you, anyway?” At this the three mountaineers roared with laughter. With his dumpy figure in the long coat, and his round face under the tall hat, the little man was irresistible. He fairly shone with good humor; his cheeks were polished like big red apples; his white hair had the luster of silver; his blue eyes twinkled; his silk hat glistened; his gold watch guard sparkled; his patent leathers glistened; and the cane with the big gold head gleamed in the sunlight. “That’s him, Doc,” called the driver. “That’s the feller what wallered Wash Gibbs like I was a tellin’ ye. Strongest man in the hills he is. Dad burn me if I believe he knows how strong he is.” “Doc—Doc—Dad burned—Doc,” muttered the stranger. “What would Sarah and the girls say!” He waddled to the wagon, and reached up one fat hand with a half dollar to Budd, “Here, driver, here. Get cigars with that; cigars, mind you, or candy. I stay here. Mind you don’t get anything to drink; nothing to drink, I say.” Budd gathered up the reins and woke the sleepy mules with a vigorous jerk. “Nary a drink, Doc; nary a drink. Thank you kindly all the same. Got t’ mosey ’long t’ th’ still now; ought t’ o’ been there hour ago. ’f I can do anything fer you, jest le’ me know. I live over on Sow Coon Gap, when I’m ’t home. Come over an’ visit with me. Young Matt there’ll guide you.” As he watched the wagon down the valley, the stranger mused. “Doc—Doc—huh. Quite sure that fellow will buy a drink; quite sure.”