Uncle Ethan was wondering what the man was. He had some pots of black paint in the wagon, and two or three square boxes.
"What do yeh think o' Cleveland's chances for a second term?" continued the man, as if they had been talking politics all the while.
Uncle Ripley scratched his head. "Waal—I dunno—bein' a Republican—I think "——
"That's so—it's a purty scaly outlook. I don't believe in second terms myself," the man hastened to say.
"Is that your new barn acrost there?" pointing with his whip.
"Yes, sir, it is," replied the old man, proudly. After years of planning and hard work he had managed to erect a little wooden barn, costing possibly three hundred dollars. It was plain to be seen he took a childish pride in the fact of its newness.
The stranger mused. "A lovely place for a sign," he said, as his eyes wandered across its shining yellow broadside.
Uncle Ethan stared, unmindful of the bugs crawling over the edge of his pan. His interest in the pots of paint deepened.
"Couldn't think o' lettin' me paint a sign on that barn?" the stranger continued, putting his locked hands around one knee, and gazing away across the pig-pen at the building.
"What kind of a sign? Gol darn your skins!" Uncle Ethan pounded the pan with his paddle and scraped two or three crawling abominations off his leathery wrist.