"Where are we going now, grandpa?"

"To Queechy Run."

"That will give us a nice long ride. I am very glad. This has
been a good day. With my letter and my bittersweet I have got
enough, haven't I, grandpa?"

Queechy Run was a little village, a very little village, about
half a mile from Mr. Ringgan's house. It boasted, however, a
decent brick church of some size, a school-house, a lawyer's
office, a grocery store, a dozen or two of dwelling-houses,
and a post-office; though for some reason or other Mr. Ringgan
always chose to have his letters come through the
Sattlersville post-office, a mile and a half further off At
the door of the lawyer's office Mr. Ringgan again stopped, and
again shouted "Holloa!" —

"Good-day, Sir. Is Mr. Jolly within?"

"He is, Sir."

"Will you ask him to be so good as to step here a moment? I
cannot very well get out."

Mr. Jolly was a comfortable-looking little man, smooth and
sleek, pleasant and plausible, reasonable honest, too, as the
world goes; a nice man to have to do with; the world went so
easy with his affairs that you were sure he would make no