lane, it needed no perspicuous eye to perceive that his trousers had been
made for a much larger man, for, as his uncertain foot left the step of
his vehicle, one baggy leg of the garment fell down over his foot,
completely concealing his boot and hanging some inches beneath. A faintly
vexed expression crossed his face as he endeavored to arrange the
disorder, but he looked up and returned Briscoe's bow, sadly, with an air
of explaining that he was accustomed to trouble, and that the trousers had
behaved no worse than he expected.

No more inoffensive or harmless figure than this feeble little old man
could be imagined; yet his was the distinction of having received a
terrible visit from his neighbors of the Cross-Roads. Mrs. Wimby was a
widow, who owned a comfortable farm, and she had refused every offer of
the neighboring ill-eligible bachelors to share it. However, a vagabonding
tinker won her heart, and after their marriage she continued to be known
as "Mrs. Wimby"; for so complete was the bridegroom's insignificance that
it extended to his name, which proved quite unrememberable, and he was
usually called "Widder-Woman Wimby's Husband," or, more simply, "Mr.
Wimby." The bride supplied the needs of his wardrobe with the garments of
her former husband, and, alleging this proceeding as the cause of their
anger, the Cross-Roads raiders, clad as "White-Caps," broke into the
farmhouse one night, looted it, tore the old man from his bed, and
compelling his wife, who was tenderly devoted to him, to watch, they
lashed him with sapling shoots till he was near to death. A little yellow
cur, that had followed his master on his wanderings, was found licking the
old man's wounds, and they deluged the dog with kerosene and then threw
the poor animal upon a bonfire they had made, and danced around it in
heartiest enjoyment.

The man recovered, but that was no palliation of the offense to the mind