iously watched them and the clock.

He was overcome, it seemed, by the affection which it now transpired
that Little Arcady bore for him. Presently he half dried his tears and
drew from an inner pocket of his coat the package of our letters.

With eyes again streaming, in a sob-riven voice, he read them all to the
pleased crowd. At the end, he regained control of himself.

"Gentlemen, believe it or not, nothing has touched me like this since I
bade farewell to my regiment in '65. You are getting under the heart of
Jonas Rodney this time--I can't deny that."

He began on the letters again, selecting the choicest, and not
forgetting at intervals to rebuke the bar-tender for alleged inactivity.

At last the clock marked ten-forty, and we heard the welcome rumble of
the 'bus wheels. There was a hurried consultation with Amos Deane, the
driver. He was to enter the bar in a brisk, businesslike way, seize the
bag, and hustle the Colonel out before he had time to reflect. We peered
over the screen, knowing the fateful moment was come.

We saw the Colonel resist the attack on his bag and listen with marked
astonishment to the assertion of Amos that there was just time to catch
the train.

"Time was made for slaves," said Potts.

"That there train ain't goin' to wait a minute," reminded Amos,
civilly. The Colonel turned upon him with a large sweetness of manner.

"Ah, yes, my friend, but trains will be passing through your pretty
little hamlet for years--I hope for ages--yet. They pass every day, but
you can't have Jonas Rodney Potts every day."

Here, with a gesture, he directed the crowd's attention to Amos.

"Look at him, gentlemen. Speak to him for me--for I cannot. I ask you to
note the condition he's in." Here, again, the Colonel burst into tears.
"And, oh, my God!" he sobbed, "could they ask me to trust myself to a
drunken rowdy of a driver, even if I _was_ going?" Amos was not only
sober, he was a shrewd observer of events, a seasoned judge of men. He
turned away without further parley. Big Joe told him he ought to be in
better business than trying to break up a pleasant party.

As the 'bus started, the strains of "Auld Lang Syne" floated to us
again, and we knew the day was lost.

"A hand of iron in a cunning little velvet glove," said Westley Keyts,
in deep disgust as he left us. "It looks to me a darned sight more like
a hand of mush in a glove of the _same!_"

I have often been brought to realize that t