As things turned out, Mr. Dinwiddie never did get around to doing anything of the things he threatened to. But that sure settled the privy problem. It was gone and the pit was filled in within an hour; and if you ever feel like getting a punch in the nose, just tell the commissioners that there ought to be another courthouse privy.

Well, that’s a sample of Ken Lacey’s advice. Just one sample of how good it is . . .

Of course, some people might say it was no good at all, that it might have got Mr. Dinwiddie killed and me in a pack of trouble. They might say that the other advice Ken had given me was pure meanness, and meant to be hurtful rather than helpful.

But me, well, I’ll always think good of people as long as I possibly can. Or at least I won’t think bad about ‘em until I absolutely have to. So I hadn’t quite reached a decision about Ken as yet.

I figured I’d see how he acted today, what kind of advice he gave me before I made up my mind. If he stacked up even halfway good, I’d give him the benefit of the doubt. But if he didn’t appear even that good . . .

Well, I’d know what to do about him.

I always know.

4

I bought a bite of lunch from the train news butch, just a few sandwiches and some pie and potato chips and peanuts and cookies and sody-pop. About two o’clock that afternoon, we got into Ken Lacey’s town, the county seat where he was high sheriff.

It was a real big place—probably four, five thousand people. The main street was paved, along with the square around the courthouse, and everywhere you looked there were wire-wheeled buggies and fancy fringe-topped carriages, and I even seen two, three auty-mo-biles with eye-goggled dudes driving ‘em and women in veils and linen dusters holding on for dear life. I mean, it was just like being in New York or one of them other big cities I’ve heard about. All that stuff to see, and the people so busy and used to excitement that they didn’t pay no mind at all.

Just for example, I passed this one vacant lot where there was the god-dangest dogfight going on that I ever did see. Kind of a battle royal between two hounds and a bulldog and a kind of spotty-assed mongrel.

Why, even if there hadn’t been a fight, that mongrel would have been enough to make a fella stop and stare. Because I’m telling you, he was really something! He had this high ass in the back, all spotted and speckled like a cow had farted bran on him. But his front legs were so short that his nose almost rubbed on the ground. And one of his eyes was blue and the other’n was yaller. A real bright yaller like a woman’s hair.

I stood there gawking, wishing that I had someone from Pottsville with me as a witness, because naturally no one’d ever believe I’d really seen a dog like that. Then, I happened to look around, and hard as it was to tear myself away, I turned my back on that spectacle and went on toward the courthouse.