“I reckon I have made it strong enough to hold ’em,” declared the justice, referring to the paper in his hand. “I hope Stanyan will get here before dark. Ah, it’s going to rain soon. I wish Stanyan were here now.”
The same wish may have been in the minds of others, and ’Squire Hardy was not the only one who consulted his watch and calculated that it would be fully an hour later before the officer could be expected.
At this juncture the sound of a wagon approaching was heard, and all turned expectantly up the road, to discover a double team coming toward the station at a smart rate of speed. The seat contained one man and two boys. Covered from head to foot with the flour that had blown over him, it was no wonder the driver was not recognized until he was near at hand.
“It’s Deacon Cornhill!” cried one of the bystanders. “But what in the world has he been doing with himself?”
The deacon did present a singular appearance, but he was unmindful of this, as he drove his team alongside the station platform, calling out, in his cheery voice:
“I hope you ain’t got tired o’ waiting, but I went as spry as I could. Here, boys, help throw the things in, and then we’ll give the sick ones a boost. Jim, jess hold my hosses.”
“Don’t know as I care about mixing up in sich an affair,” muttered the man addressed, quickly retreating to the rear of the crowd to escape a second invitation of the kind.
“I should like to know what you are up to?” demanded ’Squire Hardy, advancing, while he flourished the document in his hand so the other might see it. “I have sent for Mr. Stanyan to attend to these folks. I reckon he’ll be in time to look after them,” pulling out his watch and consulting it.
“We won’t bother Mr. Stanyan, and there was no need for you to send for him, ’Squire Hardy.”
“I ain’t so sure about that, deacon. At any rate I have sent for him, and before I shall let these critters go, I want to know what you are going to do with them.”