, the landlord, sat with
his guests, while his wife and children ate in the kitchen by their own
preference. Transient trade was light in Plattville; nobody ever came
there, except occasional commercial travellers who got out of town the
instant it was possible, and who said awful things if, by the exigencies
of the railway time-table, they were left over night.

Behind the host's chair stood a red-haired girl in a blue cotton gown;
and in her hand she languidly waved a long instrument made of clustered
strips of green and white and yellow tissue paper fastened to a wooden
wand; with this she amiably amused the flies except at such times as the
conversation proved too interesting, when she was apt to rest it on the
shoulder of one of the guests. This happened each time the editor of
the "Herald" joined in the talk. As the men seated themselves they all
nodded to her and said, "G'd evening, Cynthy." Harkless always called
her Charmion; no one knew why. When he came in she moved around the
table to a chair directly opposite him, and held that station throughout
the meal, with her eyes fixed on his face. Mr. Martin noted this
manoeuvre--it occurred regularly twice a day--with a stealthy smile at
the girl, and her light skin flushed while her lip curled shrewishly
at the old gentleman. "Oh, all right, Cynthy," he whispered to her, and
chuckled aloud at her angry toss of the head.

"Schofields' seemed to be kind of put out with me this evening,"
he remarked, addressing himself to the company. "He's the most
ungratefullest cuss I ever come up with. I was only oratin' on how
proud the city ought to be of him. He fairly keeps Plattville's sportin'
spirit on the gog; 'die out, wasn't for him. There's be'n more money
laid on him whether he'll strike over and above the hour, or under and
below, or whether he'll strike fifteen minutes before time, or twenty
after, than--well, sir, we'd all forgit the language if it wasn't for
Schofields' bell to keep us talkin'; that's _my_ claim. Dull days, think
of the talk he furnishes all over town. Think what he's done to promote
conversation. Now, for instance, Anna Belle Bardlock's got a beau, they
say"--here old Tom tilted back in his chair and turned an innocent eye
upon a youth across the table, young William Todd, who was blushing over
his griddle-cakes--"and I hear he's a good deal scared of Anna Belle and
not just what you might call brash with her. They say every Sunday night
he'll g