This speech seemed to crush the father and mother. They felt somehow as if they were implicated. But Captain Abrams apologized in every way for annoying them. They all seated themselves, the blinds pulled down and a solemn compact entered into that the matter never be referred to again. The father paid for the potatoes, taking "Al-f-u-r-d's" figures. "Al-f-u-r-d" was warned if he ever mentioned the affair outside of home that he would be sent to the House of Refuge. The family felt that they were everlastingly disgraced. The mother felt it most keenly. The father was half disposed to hold "Al-f-u-r-d" partly responsible and a trip to the cellar was strongly threatened. But Lin interfered by saying: "Why, his mother and me is wus than 'Al-f-u-r-d'. Any grown body'd knowed Charley couldn't dig that many pertaters in a week, let alone a day." Time wore on and the potato episode was seemingly forgotten. The family felt that the disgrace had been lived down and all were thankful the matter had not become the talk of the town. Uncle Bill, Charley's father, was a good talker, fond of argument and usually the center of a group, particularly when political or religious subjects were under discussion. A long bench in front of Bill Isler's tin shop, ranged close up to the building. The town pump stood across the ten feet wide sidewalk opposite. It was a pleasing sight to look upon this gathering of inequality of rank and property and equality of intellect discussing all questions, the affairs of their neighbors in particular. [Illustration: Uncle Bill and the Boys] There was a full bench: Joe Gibbons, Barney Barnhart, Jase Baker, Billy Graham, Birney Wilkins, and George Muckle Fee. Fee was a peculiar character, with an unusual deformity, since his neck was bent like a huge bow, not unlike a limb with the knee bent, his face looking to the ground. To look to either side he must turn his entire body. The only human being he ever thought kindly of was his wife, Susan. He always spoke of her respectfully. Some people he hated more intensely than others. Uncle Bill was an especial mark of his vituperation. When they passed on the street George would turn his body half way around to mutter and curse him--however, not that Uncle Bill could hear. George's usual position at the gathering in the evening was back against the old pump facing those seated on the bench, with lowered face and upturned eyes, looking from one speaker to another, scowling or smiling as the remarks met with his approval or otherwise. The subject under discussion was "boys." A number of boys of the town, almost grown men, had been apprehended stealing scrap iron. Uncle Bill, as usual, had the center of the stage. He had about concluded a lengthy discourse as to the management of boys, bad boys in particular, and as usual concluded by relating for the hundredth time, how he managed his boys.