end of the breakfast table, pouring weak coffee, his brother and
Dan and Jerry were in their chairs, and Mahailey was baking
griddle cakes at the stove. A moment later Mr. Wheeler came down
the enclosed stairway and walked the length of the table to his
own place. He was a very large man, taller and broader than any
of his neighbours. He seldom wore a coat in summer, and his
rumpled shirt bulged out carelessly over the belt of his
trousers. His florid face was clean shaven, likely to be a trifle
tobacco-stained about the mouth, and it was conspicuous both for
good-nature and coarse humour, and for an imperturbable physical
composure. Nobody in the county had ever seen Nat Wheeler
flustered about anything, and nobody had ever heard him speak
with complete seriousness. He kept up his easy-going, jocular
affability even with his own family.

As soon as he was seated, Mr. Wheeler reached for the two-pint
sugar bowl and began to pour sugar into his coffee. Ralph asked
him if he were going to the circus. Mr. Wheeler winked.

"I shouldn't wonder if I happened in town sometime before the
elephants get away." He spoke very deliberately, with a
State-of-Maine drawl, and his voice was smooth and agreeable.
"You boys better start in early, though. You can take the wagon
and the mules, and load in the cowhides. The butcher has agreed
to take them."

Claude put down his knife. "Can't we have the car? I've washed it
on purpose."

"And what about Dan and Jerry? They want to see the circus just