Ringgan's house. It boasted however a decent brick church of some
size, a school-house, a lawyer's office, a grocery store, a dozen or two
of dwelling-houses, and a post-office; though for some reason or other Mr.
Ringgan always chose to have his letters come through the Sattlersville
post-office, a mile and a half further off. At the door of the lawyer's
office Mr. Ringgan again stopped, and again shouted "Holloa!"--
"Good-day, sir. Is Mr. Jolly within?"
"He is, sir."
"Will you ask him to be so good as to step here a moment? I cannot very
well get out."
Mr. Jolly was a comfortable-looking little man, smooth and sleek, pleasant
and plausible, reasonably honest too, as the world goes; a nice man to
have to do with, the world went so easy with his affairs that you were
sure he would make no unnecessary rubs in your own. He came now fresh and
brisk to the side of the wagon, with that uncommon hilarity which people
sometimes assume when they have a disagreeable matter on hand that must be
spoken of.
"Good-morning, sir! Fine day, Mr. Jolly."
"Beautiful day, sir! Splendid season! How do you do, Mr. Ringgan?"
"Why, sir, I never was better in my life, barring this lameness, that
disables me very much.
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