Mr. Hydeman smiled at the note of horror in Tidbury's voice.
"Oh, I hang out down there," he admitted airily.
"And you're going to the Pagan Rout?"
Even into the seclusion of Calais, Maine, and Mrs. Kelty's, rumors of that revel had filtered.
"I never miss one," replied Mr. Hydeman grandly. "And say, I've a costume this year that's a knockout."
"You have?"
"Yes. I've got a preacher's outfit. Can you imagine me a parson?"
Weakly Tidbury said he couldn't.
"And say," went on Mr. Hydeman, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper, "I'll have a flask of hip oil on me."
"Hip oil?"