He was an old man and he sat on the steps of the railroad station in a small Kentucky town.
A well dressed man, some traveler from the city, approached and stood before him.
The old man became self-conscious.
His smile was like the smile of a very young child. His face was all sunken and wrinkled and he had a huge nose.
"Have you any coughs, colds, consumption or bleeding sickness?" he asked. In his voice there was a pleading quality.
The stranger shook his head. The old man arose.
"The sickness that bleeds is a terrible nuisance," he said. His tongue protruded from between his teeth and he rattled it about. He put his hand on the stranger's arm and laughed.
"Bully, pretty," he exclaimed. "I cure them all—coughs, colds, consumption and the sickness that bleeds. I take warts from the hand—I cannot explain how I do it—it is a mystery—I charge nothing—my name is Tom—do you like me?"
The stranger was cordial. He nodded his head. The old man became reminiscent. "My father was a hard man," he declared. "He was like me, a blacksmith by trade, but he wore a plug hat. When the corn was high he said to the poor, 'go into the fields and pick' but when the war came he made a rich man pay five dollars for a bushel of corn."
"I married against his will. He came to me and he said, 'Tom I do not like that girl.'"