As the boat floats on, the figures become indistinct, the houses fade into the soft distance, the mill, like those of the gods, grinds slowly on, and, with the next bend in the river, the sleepy village is gone.
The story of the eventful day percolates from the store off into the back country, and weeks later we hear it from a rheumatic old dweller in the marshy land, near the beginning of the sand hills. He unfortunately “wasn’t to town” at the time.
“A feller come ’long in a boat an’ stopped at the mill. He was ’round thar fer over an hour
“WITH THE NEXT BEND IN THE RIVER THE SLEEPY VILLAGE IS GONE”]
an’ drawed some pitchers of it. He made one o’ the old man with ’is pipe showin’. He was some city feller, an’ had to git the old man to help ’im with ’is boat ’round the dam. The old man’s got a pitcher ’e made of ’im stickin’ up in the mill now. A feller like him oughter larn some trade, instid o’ foolin’ away ’is time makin’ pitchers. Nobody ’ud ever buy one o’ them dam’ things in a thousand years. I’ll bet ’e was spyin’ fer the railroad, an’ they’ll prob’ly be ’long here makin’ a _sur_vey before long.”
A little farther down is a loose-jointed bridge with some patent medicine signs on it. Another sign tells the users not to drive over the structure “faster than a walk.” Any kind of a speed limit in this slumbrous land seems preposterous, but the cautionary board is there, peppered over with little holes, made by repeated charges of small shot, and partially defaced with sundry initials cut into it with jack-knives. Some crude and unknown humorist has changed some of the letters and syllables in the patent medicine signs, and made them even more eloquent.
Another lone fisherman is on the bridge, watching a cork that bobs idly on the dimpled tide below. Another single suspender supports some deteriorated overalls. Possibly the freckled boy up the river was wearing the rest of the suspenders. He is an old man, with heavy gray eyebrows, and long white whiskers that sway gently in the soft wind. His face has an air of patient resignation. He wears a faded colored shirt and a weather-beaten straw hat. His feet, encased in cowhide boots, hang down over the edge of the rickety structure, and he sadly shakes his head when asked if he has caught any fish. His lure has been ineffectual and he is about ready to go home. There is still a faint lingering hope that the cork may be suddenly submerged, and the appearance of a new object of interest has decided him to remain a little while longer.