The incident had brought out vividly enough the difference between Evered and his son. They were two characters sharply contrasting; for where Evered was harsh, John was gentle of speech; and where Evered was abrupt, John was slow; and where Evered’s eye was hard and angry, John’s was mild. They contrasted physically. The son was tall, well-formed and fair; the father was short, almost squat in his broad strength, and black of hair and eye. Nevertheless, it was plain to the seeing eye that there was strength in John as there was strength in Evered—strength of body and soul.
When Evered had gone into the store Motley said to the son, “It’s warm.”
The young man nodded in a wistfully friendly way. “Yes,” he agreed. “So warm it’s brought up our peas this day.”
“That south slope of yours is good garden land,” Motley told him, and John said:
“Yes. As good as I ever see.”
Everyone liked John Evered; and someone asked now: “Been fishing any, over at Wilson’s?”
John shook his head. “Too busy,” he explained. “But I hear how they’re catching some good strings there.”
“Luke Hills brought in ten to-night that was ten feet long,” Jim Saladine offered. “Got ’em at Ruffingham.”
The young man in the buggy smiled delightedly, his eyes shining. “Golly, what a catch!” he exclaimed.
Then Evered came to the door of the store and looked out, and silence fell upon them all once more. The mail was coming down the hill; the stage, a rattling, rusted, do-or-die automobile of ancient vintage, squeaked to a shrill stop before the very nose of Evered’s horse. John spoke to the horse, and it was still. The stage driver took the mail sacks in, and Evered left the doorway. The others all got up and turned toward the door.