epend
upon Sylvanus Starr to make the most of the occasion.

The editor issued an "Extra" of dodger-like appearance, and it is
doubtful if he would have used larger type to announce an anticipated
visit of the President. He called upon every citizen with a spark of
civic pride to turn out and give Andy P. Symes a fitting welcome; to do
homage to the man who was to Crowheart what the patron saints are to the
cities of the Old World.

The matutinal "Hot Time in the Old Town" and a majority of the
population waiting on the cinders about the red water tank were the
results of his impassioned plea.

Tears of gratified vanity stood in the eyes of Andy P. Symes as from the
front platform of the passenger coach he saw his neighbors assembled to
greet him. It seemed an eminently fitting and proper tribute to the
great-grandson of the man who had been a personal friend of Alexander
Hamilton's. He viewed the welcoming throng through misty eyes as, with
an entire appreciation of the imposing figure he presented, he bared his
massive head in deference to Mrs. Terriberry, Mrs. Percy Parrott, Mrs.
Starr and her two lovely daughters whose shrill shrieks were audible
above the grinding of the car-wheels upon the rusty track.

Sylvanus Starr with many sweeping gestures of a hand which suggested a
prehensile, well-inked claw, welcomed him in an outburst of oratory,
iridescent with adjectives which gushed from him like a volume of water
from a fire-plug, that made Crowheart's jaw drop. While Symes may have
felt that the editor was going it rather strong when he compared him to
the financial geniuses of the world beginning with Croesus and
ending with the Guggenheims, he made no protest.

Behind Mr. Symes, wide-eyed and solemn, and transformed nearly past
recognition by a hobble skirt and "kimona" sleeves, stood Mrs. Symes
with the growing feeling of complacent aloofness which comes from being
the wife of a great man.

In contrast to Sylvanus Starr's fluency Symes's response seemed halting
and slow, but it gained thereby in impressiveness. When he clenched his
huge fist and struck at the air, declaring for the third time that "it
was good to be home!" nobody doubted him. And they need not have doubted
him, for, since his salary did not begin until his return to Crowheart,
and the offerings of night-lunch carts are taxing upon the digestion, it
was indeed "good to be home!"

VII

THE SHEEP FROM THE GOATS

Andy P. Symes de