"I ain't heard 'bout that," he said in a mellifluous voice. "Ye know I was tucked up in yonder"—he jerked his thumb over his shoulder—"tendin' to the countin' of the votes, bein' returnin'-officer. Who married?"
"Why this hyar Walter Hoxon—him ez is candidate fur sher'ff," said the red-haired interlocutor, widening his grin.
Beckett elevated his heavy, grizzled eyebrows. A sudden, secret, important look, as if he were colloguing with some one vanquished in argument, crossed his face. He nodded once or twice, but only said acquiescently: "Ah—ha! Ah—ha! Toler'ble enterprisin'. Run fur office an git married 'lection day."
He smiled broadly. Any innovation on the stereotyped methods appealed to him with the grace and relish of a new metre to a neophytic rhymester.
"Wat's a nice boy, a mighty good boy, too," he went on, with his oily voice quite soft. "Run mighty well in this 'lection, too. He's a mighty smart, good boy."
He nodded his big head approvingly. "I don't wonder he cut the t'other feller out. Mighty fine feller Wat is."
"Well, now," said the register, suddenly putting his pen behind his ear, and leaving the party of the first part and the party of the second part to their own devices, "I'm blest if I don't think Justus is worth a hundred of Wat, lock, stock, an' barrel."
Once more the grizzled eyebrows went up toward the iron-gray thatch of the coroner's forehead. "Justus! I'm free ter say I dunno nobody equal ter Justus. I hev known Justus sence he war knee-high ter a pa'tridge—the way he did keer fur them chil'n, an' brung 'em up ter be equal ter anybody in the lan'! An' smart—smart ain't the word fur him! Ef he hed education he could do anything; but he hed ter stan' back an' let the t'other chil'n git it. Whar would Wat be ef 't warn't fur Justus?"
"That's what makes me say 't was a mighty mean trick he played on
Justus," the register broke in.
"Who? How?" demanded the coroner.