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“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, wedging his mature bulk between their slim shapes. The gelding looked round the shaft at them. “Protestin’, are you?” he said to it. “These light-weight stoodents spile you!” So the gelding went on, expressing, however, by every line of its body, a sense of outraged justice. The boys related their difficult search, and learned that any mention of the name of Diggs would have brought them straight. “Bill Higgs of the Bird-in-Hand was my father, and my grandf’ther, and his father; and has been me sence I come back from the war and took the business in ’65. I’m not commonly to be met out this late. About fifteen minutes earlier is my time for gettin’ back, unless I’m plannin’ for a jamboree. But to-night I got to settin’ and watchin’ that sunset, and listenin’ to a darned red-winged blackbird, and I guess Mrs. Higgs has decided to expect me somewheres about noon to-morrow or Friday. Say, did Johnnie send you? “When he found that John had in a measure been responsible for their journey, he filled with gayety. “Oh, Johnnie’s a bird!” said he. “He’s that demure on first appearance. Walked in last evening and wanted dinner. Did he tell you what he ate? Guess he left out what he drank. Yes, he’s demure.”

You might suppose that upon their landlord’s safe and sober return fifteen minutes late, instead of on the expected noon of Thursday or Friday, their landlady would show signs of pleasure; but Mrs. Diggs from the porch threw an uncordial eye at the three arriving in the buggy. Here were two more like Johnnie of last night. She knew them by the clothes they wore and by the confidential tones of her husband’s voice as he chatted to them. He had been old enough to know better for twenty years. But for twenty years he had taken the same extreme joy in the company of Johnnies, and they were bad for his health. Her final proof that they belonged to this hated breed was when Mr. Diggs thumped the trout down on the porch, and after briefly remarking, “Half of ’em boiled, and half broiled with bacon,” himself led away the gelding to the stable instead of intrusting it to his man Silas.