Billy
suggested that they inquire of people on the road. This provided a new
sporting event: they could bet upon the answers. Now, the roads, not
populous at noon, had grown solitary in the sweetness of the long
twilight. Voices of birds there were; and little, black, quick brooks,
full to the margin grass, shot under the roadway through low bridges.
Through the web of young foliage the sky shone saffron, and frogs piped
in the meadow swamps. No cart or carriage appeared, however, and the
bets languished. Bertie, driving with one hand, was buttoning his coat
with the other, when the black gelding leaped from the middle of the
road to the turf and took to backing. The buggy reeled; but the driver
was skilful, and fifteen seconds of whip and presence of mind brought it
out smoothly. Then the cause of all this spoke to them from a gate.

"Come as near spillin' as you boys wanted, I guess," remarked the cause.

They looked, and saw him in huge white shirt-sleeves, shaking with
joviality. "If you kep' at it long enough you might a-most learn to
drive a horse," he continued, eying Bertie. This came as near direct
praise as the true son of our soil--Northern or Southern--often thinks
well of. Bertie was pleased, but made a modest observation, and "Are we
near the tavern?" he asked. "Bird-in-Hand!" the son of the soil echoed;
and he contemplated them from his gate. "That's me," he stated, with
complacence. "Bill Diggs of the Bird-in-Hand has been me since April,
'65." His massy hair had been yellow, his broad body must have weighed
two hundred and fifty pounds, his face was canny, red, and somewhat
clerical, resembling Henry Ward Beecher's.

"Trout," he said, pointing to a basket by the gate. "For your dinner.
"Then he climbed heavily but skilfully down and picked up the basket and
a rod. "Folks round here say," said he, "that there ain't no more trout
up them meadows. They've been a-sayin' that since '74; and I've been
a-sayin' it myself, when judicious." Here he shook slightly and opened
the basket. "Twelve," he said. "Sixteen yesterday. Now you go along and
turn in the first right-hand turn, and I'll be up with you soon. Maybe
you might make room for the trout." Room for him as well, they assured
him; they were in luck to find him, they explained. "Well, I guess
I'll trust my neck with you," he said to Bertie, the skillful driver;
"'tain't five minutes' risk." The buggy leaned, and its springs bent as
he climbed in, wedgin