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You must understand how in our town no boy was born ignorant, and there was never a man who didn't know everything, and so an old man of the sort who sits, spits and whittles up in front of the Courthouse must be such a font of knowledge as you never see in more northern climes. Such as Luther Joe.

Who rose up from his prime seat on first bench one Saturday long ago and moseyed on down to the blacksmith shop, an inspection tour as he did at least once a week. Sauntered inside and idly picked up a horseshoe from the rack ... a horseshoe which had only seconds ago lost that white-to-red transition they have when fresh from the forge.

Luther Joe dropped it pretty quick, as you can imagine, and stuck his smoking paw into his pants pocket, and set a cast-iron countenance of a whistling statue to his cheeks, the shrieking image of hysterical insouciance.

The peripheral vision of the smithy had caught all this.

"Might hot, weren't it?" he inquired.

"Naw, naw, not 'specially," replied Luther Joe, perhaps a little too quickly.

"Just don't take me long to look at a horseshoe."

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