“Good,” says I. “It’s anybody’s race yet.”
“D’you figger I got any chance?”
“Well,” says I, looking him over careful, “if everybody in Wicksville was to get a look at you now I don’t see how anybody else would have a chance.”
“’Most everybody’s seen me,” says he, smirking like a sick puppy. “I went to the Methodist church this mornin’, and to the young folks’ meetin’ at the Congregational church this afternoon, and I’m goin’ to the Baptis’ church right now. I calc’lated I’d stir around consid’able so folks’d have a chance to judge me, so to speak.”
“They’ll see you, all right,” says I, “unless they’ve all got cataracts in their eyes. The way you look right now, mister, it ’u’d be pretty hard to miss you.”
“Think so?” says he, grinning again as pleased as could be.
“How’s Jehoshaphat?” says I.
“Kind of crusty,” says he. “He’s always a-pickin’ at me. I’m always glad when he goes off somewheres for a day. Then I git a minnit or so to myself. He’s a-goin’ off to-morrow,” says he.
“Where?” says I, not out of curiosity, but just to say something.
“Sunfield,” says he. “It’s a leetle town nigh to twenty-five miles over.”