CHAPTER XII
THE SON THAT WAS DEAD
"The ox is dressed and hung," said Pliny Pickett, with the air of a man announcing that the country has been saved from destruction.
"Uh!... How much 'd he dress?" asked Scattergood Baines, moving in his especially reinforced armchair until it creaked its protest.
"Eight hunderd and forty-three—accordin' to Newt Patterson's scales."
"Which hain't never been knowed to err on the side of overweight," said Scattergood, dryly.
"The boys has got the oven fixed for roastin' him, and the band gits in on the mornin' train, failin' accidents, and the dec'rations is up in the taown hall—'n' now we kin git ready for a week of stiddy rain."
"They's wuss things than rain," said Scattergood, "though at the minnit I don't call to mind what they be."
"Deacon Pettybone's north mowin' is turned into a baseball grounds, and everybody in town is buyin' buntin' to wrap their harnesses, and Kittleman's fetched in more 'n five bushels of peanuts, and every young un in taown'll be sick with the stummick ache."
"Feelin' extry cheerful this mornin', hain't ye? Kind of more hopeful-like than I call to mind seein' you fer some time."