Folks is beginnin' to git here. Guess they won't be a spare bedroom in
town that hain't full up."

Scattergood pulled on his shoes and, leaving his store to take care of
itself, walked up the road, turned across the mowing which had been
metamorphosed into an athletic field, trusted his weight to the
temporary bridge across the brook, and scrambled up the bank to the
great oven where the steer was to be baked, and where the potato hole
was ready to receive twenty bushels of potatoes and the arch was ready
to receive the sugar vat in which two thousand ears of corn were to be
steamed. Pliny Pickett was in charge, with Ulysses Watts, sheriff, and
Coroner Bogle as assistants. They had fired up already, and were sitting
blissfully by in the blistering heat, bragging about the sort of meal
they were going to purvey, and speculating on whether the imported band
would play enough, and how the ball games would come out, and naming
over the folks who were expected to arrive from distant parts.

"This here town team hain't what it was ten year ago," said the sheriff.
"In them days the boys knowed how to play ball. There was me 'n' Will
Pratt and Pliny here 'n' Avery Sutphin, that was sheriff 'fore I
was...."

"What ever become of Avery?" Pliny asked.

"Went West. Heard suthin' about him a spell back, but don't call to mind
what it was. Wonder if he'll be comin' back with the rest?"

"Dunno. Think there's anythin' in the rumor that Mavin Newton's comin'?"
"Hope not," said the sheriff, assuming an official look and feeling of
the suspender to which was affixed his badge of office. "Don't want to