“Is it always as warm as this hereabouts?”

“No.  Sometimes we get it a little cooler ’bout Christmas.”

The doctor flushed with annoyance and then laughed.

“You see,” he explained, “I’m new to this part of the country.  But I always thought you had it cooler up here.”

The manner of the rustic grew more genial.

“Mostly we do,” he admitted; “but this here is a hot spell.”  Another long pause and then he volunteered suddenly:  “You can mostly tell by Alviry.  When she gets a sunstroke it’s purty hot.  I’m going for the doctor now.”

“Going for the doctor?” Callandar’s gaze swept the peaceful figure with incredulous amusement.  “Great Scott, man!  Why don’t you hurry?  Can’t the horse go any faster?”

“Maybe,” resignedly, “but he won’t.”

“Make him, then!  A sunstroke may be a very serious business.  Your wife may be dead before you get back.”

The deep-set eyes turned to him slowly.  There seemed something like a distant sparkle in their depths.

“Don’t get to worrying, stranger.  It’ll take more ’an a sunstroke to polish off Alviry.”

“Was she unconscious?”

“Not so as you could notice.”

“But if it were a sunstroke—­look here, I’ll go with you myself.  I am a doctor.”

“Kind of thought you might be,” he responded genially.  “Thinking of taking on old Doc.  Simmonds’s practice?”

“I don’t know.  But if your wife—­”

The rustic shook his head.  “No.  You wouldn’t do for Alviry.  She said to get Doc.  Parker, and a sunstroke ain’t going to change her none.  But if she likes your looks she’ll probably try you next time.  Tumble fond of experiments is Alviry—­hi! giddap!” He slapped his horse more forcibly with the loose reins and settled into, mournful silence.

“Going to put up at the Imperial?” he asked after a long and peaceful pause.

“I want to put up somewhere where I can get a good meal and get it quickly.”

The mournful Jehu shook his head gloomily.

“You won’t get that at the Imperial.”

“Where had I better go?”

“There ain’t any other place to go—­not to speak of.”

The doctor let fall a fiery exclamation.

“What say?”

“I said that it must be a queer town.”

“I’m a little hard of hearing, now and agin.  But I gather you’re not a church-going man.  It’s a great church-going place, is Coombe.  Old Doc.  Simmonds was a Methody.  We were kind of hoping the next one might be a change.  There’s two churches of Presbyterians and they’re tumble folk for hanging together.”

The doctor laughed.  “Thanks for the tip.  I’ll remember.  Coombe is considered a healthy place, isn’t it?”

“Danged healthy.”

The commiseration in the other’s tone lent to the simple question such an obvious meaning that the doctor hardly knew whether to be amused or annoyed.