don't grow much now," interpolated Bob.

"So I was told. And I beheld with rapture the architecture of the
Federal Building. That's the fullest beehive for its size, isn't it?
Post-office, revenue office,--goodness knows what's in it!"

"Is the United States Court on yet?" asked Bob.

"Not being a victim, I don't know."

"You don't have to be a victim to find that out. The whole town is
filled with the rural population who are interested in the liquor
cases,--and our rural population is unmistakable."

"If that's the sign, then it isn't on, for only about half the town
looked egregiously rural. Now I think of it, though, the court is going
to sit day after to-morrow."

"Of course. It's the first Monday in May, isn't it?"

"Please ask me how I knew it. Thank you, Mrs. Carroll. I see that you
are about to oblige me. Know then, good people, that this humble worm
that you see before you has had the honor of occupying the same seat in
the train with a minion of the law,--in fact, a revenue officer."

"Coming out to-day?"

"Yes. And, furthermore, he paid the flag-station of Flora the
distinguished attention of getting out there."

"Was he after somebody?"

"He was about to jog the memories of several people, and I think you'll
be surprised to know who one of them is. Mrs. Carroll, how can you
expect the less fortunate part of your community to keep in the
straight and narrow way, when the aristocracy--yea, verily, the
nobility--sets it so bad an example?"

"What do you mean, John?"

"I'm going to write a tale to be called 'The Titled Moonshiner; or, The
Baron's Quart of Corn.'"

Sydney and Bob looked at each other with dawning comprehension, yet
without the ability entirely to clear away the fog.

"John, are you hinting any slur against Baron von Rittenheim, our
neighbor and good friend?" The old lady was radiating dignity and
indignation.

"I'm not hinting a thing, my dear Mrs. Carroll. I'm telling you what
the affable revenue man told me. About a month ago, it seems, your
friend and neighbor entertained a guest who proved to be, not an angel
in disguise, but a deputy-marshal on his way to Asheville. Not knowing
the official position of his visitor, von Rittenheim sold him a quart
of whisky of his own vintage. Whereupon, like all other chilled vipers
that have been warmed by this or other means, even from the far days of
fable, the beast retaliated. He returned the next day and arrested
him."

Mrs. Car