crossed over to Hermann Hoffmuller's, another
establishment in which our civilization was especially menaced. He was
followed cordially by five of Little Arcady's lesser citizens, who had
obviously sustained the relation of guests to him at Skeyhan's. In
company with Westley Keyts and Eubanks, I watched this procession from
the windows of the City Hotel. Solon Denney chanced to pass at the
moment, and we hailed him.

"Oh, I'll soon fix _that_," said Solon, confidently. "Don't you worry!"

And forthwith he sent Billy Durgin, who works in the City Hotel, to
Hoffmuller's. He was to remind Colonel Potts that his train left at
eleven-eight.

Billy returned with news. Potts was reading the piece to Hoffmuller and
a number of his patrons. Further, he had bought, and the crowd was then
consuming, the two fly-specked bottles of champagne which Hoffmuller had
kept back of his bar, one on either side of a stuffed owl, since the day
he began business eleven years before.

Billy also brought two messages to Solon: one from Potts that he had
been mistaken about the attitude of Little Arcady toward himself--that
he was seeing this more clearly every minute. The other was from
Hoffmuller. Solon Denney was to know that some people might be just as
good as other people who thought themselves a lot better, and would he
please not take some shingles off a man's roof?

Solon, ever the incorrigible optimist, said, "Of course I might have
waited till he was on the train to give him the money; but don't worry,
he'll be ready enough to go when the 'bus starts."

I felt unable to share his confidence. That presentiment had for the
moment corrupted my natural hopefulness.

It was a few moments after ten when Potts next appeared to our group of
anxious watchers. This time he had more friends. They swarmed
respectfully but enthusiastically after him out of Hoffmuller's place, a
dozen at least of our ne'er-do-wells. One of these, "Big Joe" Kestril,
a genial lout of a section-hand, ostentatiously carried the bag and had
an arm locked tenderly through one of the Colonel's. These two led the
procession. It halted at the corner, where the Colonel began to read his
_Argus_ notice to Bela Bedford, our druggist, who had been on the point
of entering his store. But the newspaper had suffered. It was damp from
being laid on bars, and parts of it were in tatters. The reader paused,
midway of the first paragraph, to piece a tear across the column, and