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“No but —— No use running this democracy thing into the ground. Besides, I've known Nat for years, and besides, he's a mighty good shot and —— That's the way it is, see? Next to Nat is Chet Dashaway. Great fellow for chinning. He'll talk your arm off, about religion or politics or books or anything.”

Carol gazed with a polite approximation to interest at Mr. Dashaway, a tan person with a wide mouth. “Oh, I know! He's the furniture-store man!” She was much pleased with herself.

“Yump, and he's the undertaker. You'll like him. Come shake hands with him.”

“Oh no, no! He doesn't — he doesn't do the embalming and all that — himself? I couldn't shake hands with an undertaker!”

“Why not? You'd be proud to shake hands with a great surgeon, just after he'd been carving up people's bellies.”

She sought to regain her afternoon's calm of maturity. “Yes. You're right. I want — oh, my dear, do you know how much I want to like the people you like? I want to see people as they are.”

“Well, don't forget to see people as other folks see them as they are! They have the stuff. Did you know that Percy Bresnahan came from here? Born and brought up here!”