Down the road a buggy came creaking toward him, gray with dust, the top
canted permanently to one side, old and frayed, like the fat, shaggy, gray
mare that drew it; her unchecked, despondent head lowering before her,
while her incongruous tail waved incessantly, like the banner of a
storming party. The editor did not hear the flop of the mare's feet nor
the sound of the wheels, so deep was his reverie, till the vehicle was
nearly opposite him. The red-faced and perspiring driver drew rein, and
the journalist looked up and waved a long white hand to him in greeting.

"Howdy' do, Mr. Harkless?" called the man in the buggy. "Soakin' in the
weather?" He spoke in shouts, though neither was hard of hearing.

"Yes; just soaking," answered Harkless; "it's such a gypsy day. How is Mr.
Bowlder?"

"I'm givin' good satisfaction, thankye, and all at home. She's in town;
goin' in after her now."

"Give Mrs. Bowlder my regards," said the journalist, comprehending the
symbolism. "How is Hartley?"

The farmer's honest face shaded over, a second. "He's be'n steady ever
sence the night you brought him out home; six weeks straight. I'm kind of
bothered about to-morrow--It's show-day and he wants to come in town with
us, and seems if I hadn't any call to say no. I reckon he'll have to take
his chances--and us, too." He raised the reins and clucked to the gray
mare; "Well, she'll be mad I ain't there long ago. Ride in with me?"

"No, I thank you. I'll walk in for the sake of my appetite."