CHAPTER XIII
During the week which followed a number of things happened. First, Dink Scribbens took a wonderful and sudden turn for the better. The fact that none of his family had become infected was a matter for marvel throughout the county, and the credit for their miraculous escape was of course given to the attending physician. Uncle Billy Hoonover would not pass the hovel guarded awfully and mutely with a tiny yellow flag tacked to one corner of it—an emblem with more power to repel than a legion of soldiers—and he could not stay away from town. Unless the lamp-post where he invariably hitched renewed acquaintance with his gray nag every morning, Uncle Billy almost felt it would walk away in indignation and disappointment. Then, too, municipal, county and national affairs needed his attention every day in front of the county clerk's office. He occupied a chair there as regularly as he did at home, and his word was final. By this I do not mean that it was always accepted, but it surely was always the last spoken. Provided he secured the last word, he felt that his opinion was the correct one. During these days Mr. Hoonover "drove through." That is to say he made a more or less direct route for town through his own and one of his neighbour's farms; a trip attended with much discomfort and some peril, for the way led over ground tilled and untilled, across unexpected gullies and into grass-hidden sinkholes.
One morning, a week after John's encounter with Marston at the latter's home, the usual gathering began to assemble in the shade before the door of the county clerk's office. Some were smoking pipes; some were chewing tobacco. The use of the weed in some form was universal. Conversation was desultory and spiritless for a time. The morning was extremely hot, and one would have thought that fact responsible for the listlessness which pervaded the group. The truth was, however, that their ringleader had not arrived.
"Uncle Billy must be sick," drawled big Joe Colver, tilting his chair onto its two rear legs and leaning his weight forward on his knees.
"More like he's fell in a ditch 'n' broke his laig!" chimed in old Tim Mellowby. Old Tim was the town drunkard, a privileged, harmless character, whom every one tolerated. He remained in a perpetual state of comfortable inebriety; was inoffensive; in former years had been a boot and shoe maker, and during that period of his life had accumulated enough money to support himself in drunken idleness the rest of his days. His favourite haunt was the spot he now sat. He loved to listen, and also to express himself from time to time. A general laugh greeted Tim's sally.
"Mr. Hoonover will arrive, never fear!" piped a third voice.
It came from against the wall, and the speaker was Colonel Whitley. He was an old, dried-up little man, with keen eyes, bushy brows, hawk nose and fuzzy gray side whiskers. He was the learned one of the group—quite a scholar indeed. He had been "abroad" in his day, too, and this fact invested him with an added dignity in the eyes of his stay-at-home townspeople. His profession had formerly been the practice of law, but he had retired several years before. Nevertheless he always came up to the courthouse yard every morning to read his paper, and occasionally to let his voice be heard.
"Possess your souls in patience," he added, "and presently you will witness the fulfillment of my prediction."
His head went down behind the paper. His hearers were accustomed to his bombastic style of speech, and admired him too much even to smile at the fulness of his rhetoric.
A figure came thumping hurriedly across the yard, a black medicine case in its hand, its vest secured by a single button at the bottom, wearing a white shirt streaked with ambier, and a derby hat much too large.