"You do, hey?"
"I do. I've got tired of travellin' round over this world, and I'm goin' to settle down. And that school-house is the only real estate I've got to settle down in. I'll keep bach' hall there."
"Who in thunderation are you, anyway?" demanded Cap'n Sproul, propping himself on the table and leaning forward belligerently.
"My name is Dependence Crymble," replied the other, quietly. "My father was Hope-for-grace Crymble. Odd names, eh? But the Crymbles were never like other folks."
Cap'n Sproul sat down hard in his chair and goggled at the thin man.
"Say, look-here-you," he gasped at last. "There never could be more'n one name like Dependence Crymble in this world. I ain't a native here and I don't know you from Adam. But is your wife the Widow Delora Crymble—I mean, was she—oh, tunk-rabbit it, I reckon I'm gettin' as crazy as you are!"
"I'm not insane," persisted the other. "I'm Dependence Crymble, and I married Delora Goff. I've been away from here twenty years, but I guess the old residents will recognize me, all right."
"But," declared the Cap'n, floundering for a mental footing, "it's always been said to me that Dependence Crymble died off—away somewhere."
"I've already told you I died," said the thin man, still mild but firm. "That's right, just as you've heard it."
"There's a stone in the graveyard to you," went on the Cap'n, clawing his stubby fingers into his bristle of hair, "and they've always called her 'Widder Crymble' and"—he stood up again and leaned forward over the table in the attitude of Jove about to launch a thunderbolt and gasped—"she's goin' to get married to Bat Reeves, Tuesday of next week—and he's the most infernal scalawag in this town, and he's took her after he's tried about every other old maid and widder that's got property."