"Going to try to." "I find this taking long walks is good for me," said Mott. "It keeps my muscles in trim and gives me wind." This, then, was the object which Mott had in view in inviting him to take the walk, Will hastily concluded. He wanted to find out all he could learn about his ability as a runner, and in spite of himself Will was flattered by the evident interest and attention. They were now within the confines of the village, and excusing himself for a moment Mott left Will, but when he returned it was evident from the odor about him that the sophomore had been to some speakeasy. Will had known of Mott's habits, and the fact that he had left him and gone alone to secure his drink argued that the fellow was not altogether bad. There was not a long delay in the village, and the return by a different road from that by which they had come was suggested by Mott, and Will had acquiesced. They had not gone far, however, before Mott discovered a farmer approaching with a team and a heavy but empty farm wagon, and quickly suggested that they should ride, and as Will at once agreed, his companion hailed the passing man. "Hi, grandpa! Will you give us a ride?" he called. Without a word the farmer, who was an old man, halted his team and permitted the boys to clamber up into the wagon. "This is more like it," said Mott, forgetful of the benefits of walking, as the horses started. "It's not half bad," replied Will, as he glanced at the old man who was driving. A straw hat covered his gray head, and his untrimmed gray beard as well as his somewhat rough clothing could not entirely detract from the keen twinkle in his eyes. "I fancy," said Mott, addressing the driver, "that the beauties of this country have added much to your longevity?" "My which?" demanded the farmer sharply. "Your longevity." "I never had no such complaint's that. I've had the rheumatiz, but that's all that ever bothered me any." "You are to be congratulated," murmured Mott. "Guess that's so. See that buryin' ground over there?" inquired the driver, pointing as he spoke to a quaint little cemetery by the roadside. "Yes," replied Mott. "Probably most of the people died of longevity." "It don't tell on th' gravestones. Jest got a new gravedigger." "How's that?" "Third we've had inside o' a year. Had one fur nigh onto forty year, but he up an' died." "Longevity?" gravely inquired Mott. "Like enough; though some folks thought 'twas softenin' o' th' brain; but my 'pinion is he never had any brains to get soft. Still he were a good digger, but the man we got next was no good." "What was the trouble with him? More longevity?" "No; he buried everybody with their feet to the west." "Isn't that the proper thing?" "No, 'tisn't!" "Why?" "Any fool knows ye ought t' be buried with yer feet t' the east." "Why's that?" "So't ye can hear Gabriel's trumpet better when he blows, an' can rise up facin' him an' be all ready t' go when he calls."