"Why, darn your skin," said Colonel Shears, "why not? The Old Red Barn sold five hundred thousand, and only out two years. Saw it myself in the paper, the other day."
"I say yes! Five hundred thousand, by cracky!"
"Oh, well," said Caleb, "that thing was written by a different cuss."
When it was learned one morning that Karl had returned under cover of night for a visit to Grassy Ford, those who had known the boy looked curiously to see what manner of man he had become. And, lo! he was scarcely a man at all, but a beardless youth, no laurel upon his head, no tragic shadow on his brow!—a shy figure flitting down the long main street, darting into stores and out again, and nodding quickly, and hurrying home again as fast as his legs would take him—to dodge a caller even there and wander, thankful for escape, on the banks of Troublesome.
"Well, you 'ain't changed much," said Colonel Shears, when he met the author.
"No," said Karl.
"Look just as peaked as ever," was the cheerful greeting of Caleb Kane.
"Yes," said Karl.
"Don't seem a day older," said Grandma Smith.