And through all them days of stress, when it looked like his neighbors might mob him any minute, Silas preserved the even tenor of his way, like the fellow says, mindin' his chickens, and goin' around serene and ca'm, at perfect peace with the world.
But of course things couldn't go on like that long. Something had to be done. It was Miller thought of what he had ought to do—Miller and his lightnin'-rod man. They got up a petition and sent it to Pendagrast. They reminded him how friendly he'd be'n with Silas, and urged him to join us in sendin' our poor friend to a private asylum for the insane, where he could have the medical attention he was requirin' so much, and be restored to such hen sense as the Creator had endowed him with in the beginnin'.
It showed what a simple genuine soul Pendagrast was when inside of a week his big yellow car came scootin' into the valley and drawed up in front of Miller Brothers' store.
“Where's my poor friend?” he says, after we had shook hands all round. “Yes,” he says, wipin' his eyes, “it's best I should take him where he can be confined and have medical attention.”
We sent for Silas. Say, it was touchin' to see them two meet and clasp hands, each lookin' innocenter and simpler than the other, and like butter would keep indefinite in their mouths.
“Are you well, Silas?” asks Pendagrast, with his arm thrown acrost Silas's shoulder. “And how's Mrs. Quinby and her good doughnuts?” smacking his lips. “And the chickens, and your vegetable garden—all doin' nicely, I hope. Well, you must make up your mind to leave these simple joys for a spell; I want you should visit me in my city home. I've come to fetch you away.” And he winks at Miller.
They'd arranged the doctors was to be introduced to Silas there without his knowin' who they was, so as he wouldn't be on his guard. You see we hadn't been able to do nothing with old Doctor Smith, the valley physician; he said Silas had just as many brains as he ever had, and a heap more than the folks who had put their land in his hands to sell.
But Silas said he couldn't leave home. He was awful firm about stayin' just where he was. He couldn't think of moving.
“It's that dreadful cunnin' insane folks have,” whispers Miller to me. “He's suspicious of his best friend.”
It was just beautiful the way Pendagrast talked with Silas, humorin' him like a little child, pleadin' with him to visit him in his city home, where there'd be prayer-meetin' every Thursday night and two regular services on Sunday. He held out every inducement he could think of, but Silas was as firm as he was gentle. It was plain he was set against leavin' the valley. Presently Pendagrast took him by the arm and says: