slowly consumed
the remembrance of a late disgrace.

Johnson could then display all the dignity of a man whose duty it was
to protect Jimmie from a splashing. "Look out, boy! look out! You done
gwi' spile yer pants. I raikon your mommer don't 'low this
foolishness, she know it. I ain't gwi' have you round yere spilin' yer
pants, an' have Mis' Trescott light on me pressen'ly. 'Deed I ain't."

He spoke with an air of great irritation, but he was not annoyed at
all. This tone was merely a part of his importance. In reality he was
always delighted to have the child there to witness the business of
the stable. For one thing, Jimmie was invariably overcome with
reverence when he was told how beautifully a harness was polished or a
horse groomed. Henry explained each detail of this kind with unction,
procuring great joy from the child's admiration.

III

After Johnson had taken his supper in the kitchen, he went to his loft
in the carriage house and dressed himself with much care. No belle of
a court circle could bestow more mind on a toilet than did Johnson. On
second thought, he was more like a priest arraying himself for some
parade of the church. As he emerged from his room and sauntered down
the carriage-drive, no one would have suspected him of ever having
washed a buggy.

[Illustration: "No One Would Have Suspected Him of Ever Having Washed
a Buggy"]

It was not altogether a matter of the lavender trousers, nor yet the
straw hat with its bright silk band. The change was somewhere, far in
the interior of Henry. But there was no cake-walk hyperbole in it. He
was simply a quiet, well-bred gentleman of position, wealth, and other
necessary achievements out for an evening stroll, and he had never
washed a wagon in his life.

In the morning, when in his working-clothes, he had met a
friend--"Hello, Pete!" "Hello, Henry!" Now, in his effulgence, he
encountered this same friend. His bow was not at all haughty. If it
expressed anything, it expressed consummate generosity--"Good-evenin',
Misteh Washington." Pete, who was very dirty, being at work
in a potato-patch, responded in a mixture of abasement and
appreciation--"Good-evenin', Misteh Johnsing."

The shimmering blue of the electric arc lamps was strong in the main
street of the town. At numerous points it was conquered by the orange
glare of the outnumbering gaslights in the windows of shops. Through
this radiant lane moved a crowd, which culminated in a thron