A stranger came to Abingdon by the morning train.

Because of a wide-brimmed gray hat, which he wore pushed well back, to testify against burning suns elsewhere--where such hats must be pulled well down, of necessity--a few Abingdonians, in passing, gave the foreigner the tribute of a backward glance.

A few only; Abingdon has scant time for curiosity.
Abingdon works hard for a living, like Saturday's child, three hundred and sixty-five days a year; except every fourth year.
Aside from the hat, the foreigner might have been, for apparel, a thrifty farmer on a trip to his market town.

He wore a good ready-made suit, a soft white shirt with a soft collar, and a black tie, shot with red.

But an observer would have seen that this was no care-lined farmer face; that, though the man himself was small, his feet were disproportionately and absurdly small; that his toes pointed forward as he walked; and detraction might have called him bow-legged.