that ever was made so's he was wuth countin' in the census by marryin'
him a wife...."

"Dummed if she hain't got red hair," was the deacon's astonished
contribution. It was as near to congratulations as the deacon ever came.



CHAPTER XII

THE SON THAT WAS DEAD


"The ox is dressed and hung," said Pliny Pickett, with the air of a man
announcing that the country has been saved from destruction.

"Uh!... How much 'd he dress?" asked Scattergood Baines, moving in his
especially reinforced armchair until it creaked its protest.

"Eight hunderd and forty-three--accordin' to Newt Patterson's scales."

"Which hain't never been knowed to err on the side of overweight," said
Scattergood, dryly.

"The boys has got the oven fixed for roastin' him, and the band gits in
on the mornin' train, failin' accidents, and the dec'rations is up in
the taown hall--'n' now we kin git ready for a week of stiddy rain."

"They's wuss things than rain," said Scattergood, "though at the minnit
I don't call to mind what they be."