idered the
slab a legitimate find and with it replaced a marble imposing stone
that had become gouged and cracked. Vaniman had found the inscription
interesting when he knelt and peered up:

Here Lies the Body of THOSPIT WAGG,
In Politics a Whig.
By Occupation a Cooper in a Hoop-pole Town.
Now Food for Worms.
Here I Lie, Like an Old Rum Puncheon,
Marked, Numbered and Shooked,
To be Raised at Last and Finished by the Hand of My Maker.

As Egypt knew, Usial Britt did not print for profit. He accepted no pay
of any sort for the product of his press. When the spirit moved, or he
felt that the occasion demanded comment in print, he "stuck" the
worn type, composing directly from the case without first putting his
thoughts on paper, and printed and issued a sheet which he titled _The
Hornet_. Sometimes _The Hornet_ buzzed blandly--more often it stung
savagely.

Vaniman obeyed his impulse; he went to the door and knocked. He had
always found Usial Britt in a sociable mood.

"Who is it?" inquired the shoemaker.

"Vaniman of the bank."

"Leave your job, whatever it is, on the threshold, sir."

"I am not bringing you any work, Mr. Britt."

"Then kindly pass on; I'm in executive session, sir."

The grumble of the cogs and the squeak of the press went on.

So did Vaniman, after he had waited at the door for a few moments.

Squire Hexter had a corner of his table cleaned of paper litter, in
readiness for the euchre game.

He was tilted back in his chair, smoking his blackened T. D. pipe, and a
swinging boot was scraping to and fro along the spine of a fuzzy old dog
whose head was meditatively lowered while he enjoyed the scratching.
The Squire called the old dog "Eli"; that name gave Hexter a frequent
opportunity to turn his little joke about having owned another dog that
he called "Uli" and presented to a brother lawyer as an appropriate
gift.

The Squire had little dabs of whiskers on his cheeks like fluffs of
cotton batting, and his wide mouth linked those dabs when he smiled.

He came forward promptly in his chair, slapped his palm on the waiting
pack of cards, and cut for the deal while Vaniman was throwing off his
coat.

"Judging by signs, as I came past Britt's shop, _The Hornet_ is getting
ready to buzz again," said the cashier.

"Aye! I reckoned as much. I have looked across there from time to time
to-day and have seen customers knocking in vain on the door. It's your