were eating boiled ham and mashed potatoes, and fried chicken heaped in a great brown mountain on a tremendous dish. This dish Mrs. Goodloe was carrying up the line. As she passed from guest to guest Texas could hear her say, in unvarying formula, with unvarying accent of generous invitation and urging, her voice as plain as if she stood behind his chair:
"Won't you have some of this here fried chicken? Won't you have some of this here fried chicken?"
She had almost reached the groom, known to Texas at the first glance as the head-leadin' barber whom Uncle Boley had mentioned, by his big black mustache, his narrow face and oiled hair; Mrs. Goodloe was even approaching him, when there came in from the street a man whose demeanor and appearance at once drew the attention of Texas from the wedding banquet.
This was a bristling, big, bony man, sour-faced, red-eyed. His shirt was as red as the grates of inferno, and his mustache was red under his long, ill-favored nose. He had the appearance of one who had come in from a long journey, and there was a sullenness in his small eyes as if he sat up nights to nurse a grudge. He wore a white silk handkerchief around his neck; on his boots Mexican spurs with rowels as big as silver dollars.
"Ain't nobody tendin' to business in this joint?"
