II

During the week which followed a number of things happened. First, Dink
Scribbens took a wonderful and sudden turn for the better. The fact that
none of his family had become infected was a matter for marvel
throughout the county, and the credit for their miraculous escape was of
course given to the attending physician. Uncle Billy Hoonover would not
pass the hovel guarded awfully and mutely with a tiny yellow flag tacked
to one corner of it--an emblem with more power to repel than a legion of
soldiers--and he could not stay away from town. Unless the lamp-post
where he invariably hitched renewed acquaintance with his gray nag every
morning, Uncle Billy almost felt it would walk away in indignation and
disappointment. Then, too, municipal, county and national affairs needed
his attention every day in front of the county clerk's office. He
occupied a chair there as regularly as he did at home, and his word was
final. By this I do not mean that it was always accepted, but it surely
was always the last spoken. Provided he secured the last word, he felt
that his opinion was the correct one. During these days Mr. Hoonover
"drove through." That is to say he made a more or less direct route for
town through his own and one of his neighbour's farms; a trip attended
with much discomfort and some peril, for the way led over ground tilled
and untilled, across unexpected gullies and into grass-hidden sinkholes.

One morning, a week after John's encounter with Marston at the latter's
home, the usual gathering began to assemble in the shade before the door
of the county clerk's office. Some were smoking pipes; some were chewing
tobacco. The use of the weed in some form was universal. Conversation
was desultory and spiritless for a time. The morning was extremely hot,
and one would have thought that fact responsible for the listlessness
which pervaded the group. The truth was, however, that their ringleader
had not arrived.

"Uncle Billy must be sick," drawled big Joe Colver, tilting his chair
onto its two rear legs and leaning his weight forward on his knees.

"More like he's fell in a ditch 'n' broke his laig!" chimed in old Tim
Mellowby. Old Tim was the town drunkard, a privileged, harmless
character, whom every one tolerated. He remained in a perpetual state of
comfortable inebriety; was inoffensive; in former years had been a boot
and shoe maker, and during that period of his life had accumulated
enough money to support