them Howes folks. And a nice mess THEY made of it. Young Cy, he--"

"Young Cy!" interrupted Bailey. "We're always callin' him 'young Cy,'
and yet, when you come to think of it, he must be pretty nigh fifty-five
now; 'most as old as you and I be. Wonder if he'll ever come back here."

"You bet he won't!" was the oracular reply. "You bet he won't! From what
I hear he got to be a sea cap'n himself and settled down there in Buenos
Ayres. He's made all kinds of money, they say, out of hides and such.
What he ever bought his dad's old place for, _I_ can't see. He'll never
come back to these common, one-horse latitudes, now you mark my word on
that!"

It was a prophecy Mr. Tidditt was accustomed to make each year to the
crowd at the post office, when the receipt for the draft for taxes
caused him to wax reminiscent. The younger generation here in Bayport
regard their town clerk as something of an oracle, and this regard has
made Asaph a trifle vain and positive.

Bailey chuckled again.

"We WAS a spunky, dare-devil lot in the old days, wan't we, Ase?" he
said. "Spunk was kind of born in us, as you might say. And even now
we're--"

The Atkins tower clock boomed once--a solemn, dignified stroke. Mr.
Tidditt and his companion started and looked at each other.

"Godfrey scissors!" gasped Asaph. "Is that half past twelve?"