Strout laughed scornfully. “In town? That's good. Why, man, he's been dead more'n twenty years—food for fishes, if they'd eat him, which I doubt. He's left a boy, same name, that used to go to school here, but, thank Heaven, he's got lots of money, and probably won't trouble us any more. Perhaps he's the one you want.”
“Are you sure the boy's father is dead? I saw him in Boston yesterday.”
“I don't take any stock in any such nonsense. This ain't the days of miracles.”
“I saw him in this town this morning.”
“Where?” gasped Strout.
“Right here. That's my name, Quincy Adams Sawyer. Do you want me to identify myself?” He stepped back, puckered up his mouth, and began whistling “Listen to the Mocking Bird.”
Strout was both startled and mad. “Just like you to come spyin' round. You allers was a meddler, an' underhanded. But now you know the truth, what are you going to do about it?”
Quincy walked to the door. “Well, Mr. Strout, I'm going to put it about as you did when I first came to Mason's Corner, Either you or I have got to leave town. This is our last fight, and I'm going to win.”
He left the store quickly and made his way to where Ezekiel was waiting for him with the carryall.
“Now, 'Zeke, we'll go to the Hospital and see poor Hiram.”