"Hello, Miles!" exclaimed Farrington, hurrying around to shake hands with him. "Haven't seen you fer an age. What's the news at Craig's Corner? Set down, you look about tuckered out."
"Should say I was," Miles drawled forth. "Never got into such a mess in all my life. Skated down river Sunday evening and was caught in that blasted snowstorm, and so am footing it back."
"Dear me, that's hard luck," and Farrington sat down upon a soap-box. "Anyway, I'm mighty glad to see ye. Hope things are goin' well at the Corner. Much election talk, eh?"
"Considerable. The air's been full of it lately, but I guess Sunday's doings will give the folks a new subject for awhile. 'Twas certainly a stunner!"
"Why, what do ye mean, Miles? Nobody killed, I hope."
"What! Haven't you heard anything?"
"No, how could I with the storm blockin' the roads."
"Sure. I never thought of that. But I supposed the parson let it out."
"The parson!" and Farrington's eyes opened wide with amazement. "What in the devil has he to do with it? He was brought home night afore last with his shoulder out of jint."
"Whew! You don't say so! Well, I declare!"