One hour later the smooth chug of a car that was not altogether
unfamiliar to their ears brought those four women eagerly to their
respective windows, and as the old clock chimed the hour of noon they
beheld Mark Carter driving calmly down the street toward his own home
in his own car. His own car! and Billy Gaston lounging lazily by
his side still chewing rhythmically.
Mark's Car! Mark! Billy! Ah Billy! Three of them mused with a
note of triumph in their eyes.
And Mrs. Harricutt as she rolled her Sunday bonnet strings mused: "Now, how in the world did that Mark Carter get his own car down to
Economy when he went up with the Chief? He had it down here this
morning, I know, for I saw him riding round. And that little imp of a
Billy! I wonder why he always tags him round! Miss Saxon ought to be
warned about that! I'll have to do it! But how in the world did Mark
get his car?"
Billy enjoyed his lunch that day, a bit of cold chicken and bread, two
juicy red cheeked apples, and an unknown quantity of sugary doughnuts
from the stone crock in the pantry. He sat on the side step munching
the last doughnut he felt he could possibly swallow. Mark was home and
all was well. Himself had seen the impressive glance that passed
between Mark and the Chief at parting. The Chief trusted Mark that was
plain. Billy felt reassured. He reflected that that guy Judas had been
precipitate about hanging himself. If he had only waited and
done a little something about it there might have been a
different ending to the story. It was sort of up to Judas anyway,
having been the cause of the trouble.
With this virtuous conclusion Billy wiped the sugar from his mouth,
mounted his wheel and went forth to browse in familiar and much
neglected pastures.
He eyed the Carter house as he slid by. Mrs. Carter was placidly
shaking out the table cloth on the side porch. Mark had eaten his apple
sauce and gone. He passed Browns, Todds, Bateses, chasing a white hen
that had somehow escaped her confines, but in front of Joneses he
suddenly became aware of the blue car that stood in front of the
parsonage. It had come to life and was throbbing. It was backing toward
him and going to turn around. On the sidewalk leaning on a cane stood
the obnoxious stranger for whose presence in Sabbath Valley he, Billy
Gaston, was responsible. He lounged at ease with a smile on his ugly
mug and acted as if he lived there! There was nothing about his
appearance to suggest his near departure. His disabled car still
stood silent and helpless beside the curb. Aw Gee!