save fifteen dollars."

He rose at the words, stiffly, for the chill air had tightened his
muscles, and stood a moment indecisively contemplating the lights
which were beginning to glimmer through the dusk in the hollow, before
he, too, took the long road to the village down which Old Jerry had
rattled a scant hour or two before.

CHAPTER VI

The Tavern "office" was crowded and hazy with acrid blue smoke. Behind
the chairs of the favored members of the old circle, who always sat in
nightly conclave about the stove, a long row of men lounged against
the wall, but the bitter controversies of other nights were still.
Instead, the entire room was leaning forward, hanging breathlessly
upon the words of the short fat man who was perched alone upon the
worn desk, too engrossed even to notice Young Denny's entrance that
night.

The boy stood for a moment, his hand still clasping the knob behind
him, while his eyes flickered curiously over the heads of the crowd.
Even before he drew the door shut behind him he saw that Judge
Maynard's chair was a good foot in advance of all the others, directly
in front of the stranger on the desk, and that the rest of the room
was furtively taking its cue from him--pounding its knee and laughing
immoderately whenever he laughed, or settling back luxuriously
whenever the Judge relaxed in his chair.

Subconsciously Young Denny realized that such had always been the
recognized order of arrangement, ever since he could remember. The
Judge always rode in front in the parades and invariably delivered
the Fourth of July oration. Undisputed he held the one vantage point
in the room, but over his amply broad back, as near as he dared lean,
bent Old Jerry, his thin face working with alternate hope and half
fearful uncertainty.

Denny Bolton would have recognized the man on the desk as the
"newspaper writer" from New York from his clothes alone, even without
the huge notebook that was propped up on his knees for corroborative
evidence. From the soft felt hat, pushed carelessly back from his
round, good-natured face, to the tips of his gleaming low shoes, the
newcomer was a symphony in many-toned browns. And as Young Denny
closed the door behind him he went on talking--addressing the entire
throng before him with an easy good-fellowship that bordered on
intimate _camaraderie_.

"Just the good old-fashioned stuff," he was saying; "the sort of thing
that has always been the backbone of the