Amidon and Ray, the postmaster, on his way home to his dinner, also joined him, and the little barber, smelling strongly of scented soap and witch-hazel.
They stood listening interestedly.
"Most too many against one," remarked the postmaster.
"He don't look scared," said Amidon.

"He's Southern, and he's got grit.

He's backed up there like the whole Confederacy." A kindly look overspread the sleek, conceited face of the man.

His forebears were from Alabama.

His father had been a small white slave-owner who had drifted North, in a state of petty ruin after the war, and there Amidon, who had been a child at the time, had grown up and married the thrifty woman who supported him.