When
you've "kept" for about forty years, there's hardly a man comes along
that you can't set right down in his particular class before he's even
registered. But Weston had blocked him at every turn. Elmer knew no
more of the man now than on the day he came. In fact, he was getting
more and more tangled up about him all the time. For instance, why
should one who could read Goth and understand the "Sorrows," want to
set around the store and argue with such-like ignoramuses as Ike Bolum
and Hen Holmes? Spiker was willing to bet that right now Weston was
over the way trying to prove to them that two and two was four.
The suggestion seemed a likely one, so I interrupted the flow of
Elmer's troubled thoughts to say good-night, and went out. I paused a
moment on the porch. A lamp was blazing in the store and I could
plainly see everyone gathered along the counter. Henry Holmes was
standing with his back to the stove, one hand wagging up and down at
the solemn line of figures on the bench. But Weston was not there.
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