It come about—same as such jolts generally come—when I was least ready for it. Jim Henry had been gone three weeks or more. 'Twas February and none of my influential friends amongst the summer folks was on hand to help. No, Mary and I were all alone and sailin' free with what looked like a fair wind, when "Bump!"—all at once our craft was half full of water and sinkin' fast.
That mornin' the mail was a little mite late and there wa'n't any store trade to speak of. Mary was in the post-office place writin', the usual gang of loafers was settin' around the stove, and I was out front talkin' with Sim Kelley, who lived up to the west end of the town, amongst the mutineers. 'Twas from Sim that I got most of my news about the doin's of the Phipps and Hamilton crowd. He was a great, hulkin', cross-eyed lubber, too lazy to get out of his own way, and as shif'less as a body could be and take pains enough to live.
"Sim," says I to him, "I thought you said old man Hamilton was in bed with his rheumatiz. I saw him up street as I was comin' by. He looked pretty feeble, but he was toddlin' along on foot just as he always does. Rheumatic or not, it's all the same. I cal'late the old critter wouldn't spend enough money to hire a team if he was dyin'."
Sim was surprised, and not only surprised, but, seemingly, a little mite worried. Why he should be worried because Ichabod was takin' chances with his diseases I couldn't see.
"Old man Hamilton!" says he. "Is he out a cold mornin' like this? Where was he bound?"
"Don't know," says I. "He stopped into the drug store when I saw him. Whether that was his final port of call or not I don't know."
He seemed to be thinkin' it over. Then he got up and walked to the door.
"He ain't in sight nowheres," he says. "Guess he wa'n't comin' as far as here, 'tain't likely."
"Well," says I, "how's the rest of the family? The hopeful leader of the forlorn hope—how's he?"
"Ike?" he says. "Oh, he's all right. He's a mighty smart young feller, Ike is."