Once, when Carter Nelson had taken too much egg-nog and his aunt thought he had spinal meningitis, the usual route had been reversed, and again when the blacksmith's triplets were born.
But these were especial occasions.

It was a matter for investigation when the doctor's buggy went over the bridge before noon.
"Anybody sick out this way ?" asked the miller.
The doctor stopped the buggy to explain.
He was a short, fat man dressed in a suit of Confederate gray.

The hand that held the reins was minus two fingers, his willing contribution to the Lost Cause, which was still to him the great catastrophe of all history.

His whole personality was a bristling arsenal of prejudices.

When he spoke it was in quick, short volleys, in a voice that seemed to come from the depths of a megaphone.
"Strange boy sick at Judge Hollis's.