, and such a comment on their own duplicity and moral
debasement, that there was nothing left for them but to break up and go
home.

The laugh did them good, and complemented the corrective which had been
administered to them by the minister. Some of them still retained their
anger, as a matter of course, and when they emerged upon the street and
found Mr. Belcher's effigy standing upon the ground, surrounded by
fagots ready to be lighted, they yelled: "Light him up, boys!" and stood
to witness the sham _auto-da-fe_ with a crowd of village urchins dancing
around it.

Of course, Mr. Belcher had calculated upon indignation and anger, and
rejoiced in their impotence. He knew that those who had lost so much
would not care to risk more in a suit at law, and that his property at
Sevenoaks was so identified with the life of the town--that so many were
dependent upon its preservation for their daily bread--that they would
not be fool-hardy enough to burn it.

Forty-eight hours after the public meeting, Mr. Belcher, sitting
comfortably in his city home, received from the postman a large handful
of letters. He looked them over, and as they were all blazoned with the
Sevenoaks post-mark, he selected that which bore the handwriting of his
agent, and read it. The agent had not dared to attend the meeting, but
he had had his spies there, who reported to him fully the authorship and
drift of all the speeches in the hall, and the unseemly proceedings of
the street. Mr. Belcher did not laugh, for his vanity was wounded. The
thought that a town in which he had ruled so long had dared to burn his
effigy in the open street was a humiliation; particularly so, as he did
not see how he could revenge himself upon the perpetrators of it without
compromising his own interests. He blurted out his favorite expletive,
lighted a new cigar, walked his room, and chafed like a caged tiger.

He was not in haste to break the other seals, but at last he sat down to
the remainder of his task, and read a series of pitiful personal appeals
that would have melted any heart but his own. They were from needy men
and women whom he had despoiled. They were a detail of suffering and
disappointment, and in some cases they were abject prayers for
restitution. He read them all, to the last letter and the last word, and
then quietly tore them into strips, and threw them into the fire.

His agent had informed him of the sources of the public information
concerning