e-witnesses give various versions as to
how he looked. All agree that his lip trembled; some say his eyes
watered: at any rate, he quailed, stood a moment undecided, and then
swung on his heel and walked to the partition door. At this safe distance
he turned.

"Mr. Prescott," he said, his voice quivering with passion and perhaps
another emotion, "I will make it my duty to report to the
postmaster-general the manner in which this office is run. Instead of
attending to your business, you make the place a resort for loafers and
idlers. Good morning, sir."

Ten minutes later Mr. Flint himself came to register the letter. But it
was done at the window, and the loafers and idlers were still there.

The curtain had risen again, indeed, and the action was soon fast enough
for the most impatient that day. No sooner had the town heard with bated
breath of the expulsion of the first citizen from the inner sanctuary of
the post-office, than the news of another event began to go the rounds.
Mr. Worthington had other and more important things to think about than
minor postmasters, and after his anger and--yes, and momentary fear had
subsided, he forgot the incident except to make a mental note to remember
to deprive Mr. Prescott of his postmastership, which he believed could be
done readily enough now that Jethro Bass was out of the way. Then he had
stepped into the bank, which he had come to regard as his own bank, as he
regarded most institutions in Brampton. He had, in the old days, been
president of it, as we know. He stepped into the bank, and then--he
stepped out again.

Most people have experienced that sickly feeling of the diaphragm which
sometimes comes from a sadden shock. Mr. Worthington had it now as he
hurried up the street, and he presently discovered that he was walking in
the direction opposite to that of his own home. He crossed the street,
made a pretence of going into Mr. Goldthwaite's drug store, and hurried
back again. When he reached his own library, he found Mr. Flint busy
there at his desk. Mr. Flint rose. Mr. Worthington sat down and began to
pull the papers about in a manner which betrayed to his seneschal (who
knew every mood of his master) mental perturbation.

"Flint," he said at last, striving his best for an indifferent accent,
"Jethro Bass is here--I ran across him just now drawing money in the
bank."

"I could have told you that this morning," answered Mr. Flint. "Wheeler,
who runs errands for