When there was a prospect of a post-office at the Cross-roads, there was only one opinion as to who was the man best calculated to adorn the position of postmaster.
“The store’s right yere, Tom,” said his patrons, “an’ you’re right yere. Ye can write and spell off things ’thout any trouble, an’ I reckon ye wouldn’t mind the extry two dollars comin’ in ev’ry month.”
“Lord! Lord!” groaned Tom, who was stretched full length on the floor of the porch when the subject was first broached. “Do you want a man to kill himself out an’ out, boys? Work himself into eternal kingdom come? Who’d do the extra work, I’d like to know—empty out the mail-bag and hand out the mail, and do the extra cussin’? That would be worth ten dollars a month. And, like as not, the money would be paid in cheques, and who’s goin’ to sign ’em? Lord! I believe you think a man’s immortal soul could be bought for fifty cents a day. You don’t allow for the wear and tear on a fellow’s constitution, boys.”
But he allowed himself to be placed in receipt of the official salary in question, and the matter of extra labour settled itself. Twice a week a boy on horseback brought the mail-bag from Barnesville, and when this youth drew rein before the porch Big Tom greeted him from indoors with his habitual cordiality.
“’Light, sonny, ’light!” he would call out in languidly sonorous tones; “come in and let these fellows hear the news. Just throw that mail-bag on the counter and let’s hear from you. Plenty of good water down at the spring. Might as well take that bucket and fill it if you want a drink. I’ve been waiting for just such a man as you to do it. These fellows would sit here all day and let a man die. I can’t get anything out of ’em. I’ve about half a mind to quit sometimes and leave them to engineer the thing themselves. Look here now, is any fellow going to attend to that mail, or is it going to lie there till I have to get up and attend to it myself? I reckon that’s what you want. I reckon that’d just suit you. Jehoshaphat! I guess you’d like me to take charge of the eternal universe.”
It was for the mail he waited with his usual complement of friends and assistants on the afternoon referred to at the opening of this chapter. The boy was behind time, and, under the influence of the heat, conversation had at first flagged and then subsided. Big Tom himself had taken the initiative of dropping into a doze, and his companions had one by one followed his example, or at least made an effort at doing so. The only one of the number who remained unmistakably awake was a little man who sat on the floor of the end of the porch, his small legs, encased in large blue jean pantaloons, dangling over the side. This little man, who was gently and continuously ruminating, with brief “asides” of expectoration, kept his eyes fixed watchfully upon the Barnesville Road, and he it was who at last roused the dozers.
“Thar’s some un a-comin’,” he announced in a meek voice. “’Tain’t him.”
Big Tom opened his eyes, stretched himself, and gradually rose in his might, proving a very tight fit for the establishment, especially the doorway, towards which he lounged, supporting himself against its side.
“Who is it, Ezra?” he asked, almost extinguishing the latter cognomen with a yawn.
“It’s thet thar feller!”