In those days all roads led to the harness shop, and there old Bev was always to be found when sober, outside the shop on a bench under a tree. There he met all the droughty farmers and entertained them with war stories and tales of his wanderings out West. He was always invited to drink with them. His pension kept him in food. His life held no serious problem.

I found him on his bench, sober and sorry for it. He passed the time of day with me, and I told him I was going away and had come to say goodbye.

“Goin’ to the city, huh? Well, don’t let ’em rub it into you. You ain’t a very strong boy.” He was a foxy old man. He leered at me out of his cunning eyes. “Have you got any shootin’ irons?” Long John Silver, the pirate, could not have done any better in the way of complimenting a boy. I was fairly hooked. I assured him that I was well heeled, having two pistols.

“That’s good. You’ll git along all right. Now you run along. I’ve got to git me a farmer. I ain’t had my whisky yet.”