te, and in the Missouri Valley, the rich
men in other states moved him by their wealth to work harder. But
before he was thirty, his laugh had become a cackle, and Colonel
Martin Culpepper, who would saunter along when Barclay would limp by
on Main Street, would call out after him, "Slow down, Johnnie, slow
down, boy, or you'll bust a biler." And then the colonel would pause
and gaze benignly after the limping figure bobbing along in the next
block, and if there was a bystander to address, the colonel would say,
"For a flat-wheel he does certainly make good time." And then if the
bystander looked worth the while, the colonel, in seven cases out of
ten, would pull out a subscription paper for some new church building,
or for some charitable purpose, and proceed to solicit the needed
funds.

BOOK II

BEING NO CHAPTER AT ALL, BUT AN INTERLUDE FOR THE ORCHESTRA

And so the years slipped by--monotonous years they seem now, so far
as this story goes. Because little happened worth the telling; for
growth is so still and so dull and so undramatic that it escapes
interest and climax; yet it is all there is in life. For the roots of
events in the ground of the past are like the crowded moments of our
passing lives that are recorded only in our under-consciousnesses, to
rise in other years in character formed, in traits established, in
events fructified. And in the years when the evil days came not, John
Barclay's tragedy was stirring in the soil of his soul.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the management, let us
thank you for your kind attention, during the tedious act which has
closed. We have done our best to please you with the puppets and have
cracked their heads together in fine fashion, and they have danced and
cried and crackled, while we pulled the strings as our mummers
mumbled. But now they must have new clothes on. Time, the great
costumer, must change their make-up. So we will fold down the curtain.
John Barclay, a Gentleman, must be painted yellow with gold. Philemon
Ward, a Patriot, must be sprinkled with gray. Martin Culpepper's Large
White Plumes must be towsled. Watts McHurdie, a Poet, must be bent a
little at the hips and shoulders. Adrian Brownwell, a Gallant, must
creak as he struts. Neal Dow Ward, an Infant, must put on long
trousers. E. W. Bemis, a Lawyer, must be dignified; Jacob Dolan, an
Irishman and a Soldier, must grow unkempt and frowsy. Robert
Hendricks, Fellow Fine, must hav