“The Hon. Sam done his duty, and he done it damn well.”      

       The issue at stake was the site of the new Court-House—two localities claiming the right undisputed, because they were the only two places in the county where there was enough level land for the Court-House to stand on. Let no man think this a trivial issue. There had been a similar one over on the Virginia side once, and the opposing factions agreed to decide the question by the ancient wager of battle, fist and skull—two hundred men on each side—and the women of the county with difficulty prevented the fight. Just now, Mr. Budd was on his way to       “The Pocket”—the voting place of one faction—where he had never been, where the hostility against him was most bitter, and, that day, he knew he was “up against” Waterloo, the crossing of the Rubicon, holding the pass at Thermopylae, or any other historical crisis in the history of man. I was saddling the mules when the cackling of geese in the creek announced the coming of the Hon. Samuel Budd, coming with his chin on his breast-deep in thought. Still his eyes beamed cheerily, he lifted his slouched hat gallantly to the Blight and the little sister, and he would wait for us to jog along with him. I told him of our troubles, meanwhile. The Wild Dog had restored our mules and the Hon. Sam beamed:     

       “He's a wonder—where is he?”      

       “He never waited—even for thanks.”      

       Again the Hon. Sam beamed:     

       “Ah! just like him. He's gone ahead to help me.”      

       “Well, how did he happen to be here?” I asked.     

       “He's everywhere,” said the Hon. Sam.     

       “How did he know the mules were ours?”      

       “Easy. That boy knows everything.”      

       “Well, why did he bring them back and then leave so mysteriously?”      

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