CHAPTER XI


A stranger came to Abingdon by the morning train. Because of a
wide-brimmed gray hat, which he wore pushed well back, to testify against
burning suns elsewhere--where such hats must be pulled well down, of
necessity--a few Abingdonians, in passing, gave the foreigner the tribute
of a backward glance. A few only; Abingdon has scant time for curiosity.
Abingdon works hard for a living, like Saturday's child, three hundred
and sixty-five days a year; except every fourth year.

Aside from the hat, the foreigner might have been, for apparel, a thrifty
farmer on a trip to his market town. He wore a good ready-made suit, a
soft white shirt with a soft collar, and a black tie, shot with red. But
an observer would have seen that this was no care-lined farmer face;
that, though the man himself was small, his feet were disproportionately
and absurdly small; that his toes pointed forward as he walked; and
detraction might have called him bow-legged. This was Mr. Peter Johnson.

Mr. Johnson took breakfast at the Abingdon Arms. He expressed to the
landlord of that hostelry a civil surprise and gratification at the
volume of Abingdon's business, evinced by a steadily swelling current of
early morning wagons, laden with produce, on their way to the station,
or, by the river road, to the factory towns near by; was assured that he
should come in the potato-hauling season if he thought that was busy;
parried a few polite questions; and asked the way to the Selden Farm.

He stayed at the Selden Farm that day and that night. Afternoon of the
next day found him in Lawyer Mitchell's waiting-room, at Vesper,