passage, was happy, even if the voyage was a rather rough one.

Just now he was supposed to be raking the back yard, but the rake was
between his knees, his head was tipped back against the shingled wall
of the kitchen, and he was sleeping, with the sunshine illuminating his
open mouth, "for all the world like a lamp in a potato cellar," as his
wife had said the last time she caught him in this position. She went on
to say that it was a pity he wouldn't stand on his head when he slept.
"Then I could see if your skull was as holler as I believe it is," she
told him.

Lute heard me as I passed him and woke up. The "potato cellar" closed
with a snap and he seized the rake handles with both hands.

"I was takin' a sort of observation," he explained hurriedly. "Figgerin'
whether I'd better begin here or over by the barn. Oh, it's you, Roscoe,
is it! Land sakes! I thought first 'twas Dorindy. Where you bound?"

"Up to the village," I said.

"Ain't goin' to the post-office, be you?"

"I may; I don't know."

Lute sighed. "I was kind of cal'latin' to go there myself," he observed,
regretfully. "Thoph Newcomb and Cap'n Jed Dean and the rest of us
was havin' a talk on politics last night up there and 'twas mighty
interestin'. Old Dean had Thoph pretty well out of the race when I
hauled alongside, but when I got into the argument 'twas different.
'What's goin' to become of the laborin' men of this country if you have