And they did.
Cap'n Aaron Sproul and Hiram Look shook hands on the news before nine o'clock the next morning.
XIX
Mr. Loammi Crowther plodded up the road. Mr. Eleazar Bodge stumped down the road.
They arrived at the gate of Cap'n Aaron Sproul, first selectman of Smyrna, simultaneously.
Bathed in the benignancy of bland Indian summer, Cap'n Sproul and his friend Hiram Look surveyed these arrivals from the porch of the Sproul house.
At the gate, with some apprehensiveness, Mr. Bodge gave Mr. Crowther precedence. As usual when returning from the deep woods, Mr. Crowther was bringing a trophy. This time it was a three-legged lynx, which sullenly squatted on its haunches and allowed itself to be dragged through the dust by a rope tied into its collar.
"You needn't be the least mite afeard of that bobcat," protested Mr. Crowther, cheerily; "he's a perfick pet, and wouldn't hurt the infant in its cradle."
The cat rolled back its lips and snarled. Mr. Bodge retreated as nimbly as a man with a peg-leg could be expected to move.
"I got him out of a trap and cured his leg, and he's turrible grateful," continued Mr. Crowther.