For weeks Talbot’s Cross-roads found itself provided with a conversational topic of absorbing interest. Ethan Cronan, who had temporarily “taken on” the post-office and store, had no cause to fear that the old headquarters was in danger of losing popularity. The truth was that big Tom had so long presided over the daily gatherings that the new occupant of the premises was regarded merely as a sort of friendly representative. Being an amiable and unambitious soul, Ethan in fact regarded himself in the same light, and felt supported and indeed elevated by the fact that he stood in the shoes of a public character so universally popular and admired.
“I ain’t Tom, an’ I cayn’t never come a-nigh him,” he said; “but I kin do my best not to cast no disgrace on his place, an’ allus tradin’ as fair as I know how. It’s a kinder honor to set in his chairs an’ weigh sugar out in the scales he used—an’ it drors trade too.”
During the passage of the first few weeks, horses, waggons, and ox-teams crowded about the hitching-posts, while excitement ran high at mail-time. The general opinion was that any post might bring the news that Congress was “sitting on” the great De Willoughby claim, and that Washington waited breathless for its decision. That all other national business should be suspended seemed inevitable. That any mail should come and go without bringing some news was not contemplated. The riders of the horses and owners of the waggons sat upon the stone porch and discussed probabilities. They told each other stories they had gathered of the bygone glories of the De Willoughbys, of the obstinate loyalty of the old Judge and the bitter indignation of his neighbours, and enlarged upon the strength of the claim this gave him to the consideration of the Government.
“Tom won’t have no trouble with his claim,” was the general opinion. “He’ll just waltz it through. Thar won’t be a hitch.”
But after the first letter in which he announced his safe arrival in the Capital City, Tom wrote no more for a week or so, which caused a disappointment only ameliorated by the belief that he was engaged in “waltzing” the claim through. Each man felt it necessary to visit the Cross-roads every day to talk over the possible methods employed, and to make valuable suggestions. Interest never flagged, but it was greatly added to when it was known that Judge Rutherford had ranged himself on Tom’s side.
“He’s the pop-larest man in Hamlin County,” it was said, “an’ he’s bound to be a pop’lar man in Congress, an’ have a pull.”
But when the summer had passed, and a touch of frost in the night air loosened the chestnuts in their burrs, and a stray morning breeze shook them in showers down upon the carpet of rustling yellowed leaves, Tom’s letters had become few and far between, and none of them had contained any account of the intentions of the legislative body with regard to the claim.
“There’s nothing to tell, boys,” he wrote. “As far as I’ve gone, it seems a man gets a claim through Congress by waiting about Washington and telling his story to different people until he wears them out—or they wear him out.”
For some time after this they did not hear from him at all. The winter set in, and the habitués of the Cross-roads Post-office gathered about the glowing stove. Under the influence of cold gray skies, biting air, leafless trees, and bare land, the claim seemed somehow to have receded into the distance. The sanguine confidence of the community had not subsided into doubt so much as into helpless mystification. Months had passed and nothing whatsoever had happened.