upright. "I tell ye, gentlemen, I'm sick o' this
sort o' hog-wash that's been ladled round to us. That gal Clementina
Harcourt and that feller Fletcher had met not only once, but MANY times
afore--yes! they were old friends if it comes to that, a matter of six
years ago."

Grant's eyes were fixed eagerly on the speaker, although the others
scarcely turned their heads.

"You know, gentlemen," said Peters, "I never took stock in this yer
story of the drownin' of 'Lige Curtis. Why? Well, if you wanter know--in
my opinion--there never was any 'Lige Curtis!"

Billings lifted his head with difficulty; Wingate turned his face to the
speaker.

"There never was a scrap o' paper ever found in his cabin with the
name o' 'Lige Curtis on it; there never was any inquiry made for 'Lige
Curtis; there never was any sorrowin' friends comin' after 'Lige Curtis.
For why?--There never was any 'Lige Curtis. The man who passed himself
off in Sidon under that name--was that man Fletcher. That's how he knew
all about Harcourt's title; that's how he got his best holt on Harcourt.
And he did it all to get Clementina Harcourt, whom the old man had
refused to him in Sidon."

A grunt of incredulity passed around the circle. Such is the fate of
historical innovation! Only Grant listened attentively.

"Ye ought to tell that yarn to John Milton," said Wingate ironically;
"it's about in the style o' them stories he slings in the 'Clarion.'"

"He's made a good thing outer that job. Wonder what he gets for them?"
said Peters.

It was Billings's time to rise, and, under the influence of some strong
cynical emotion, to even rise to his feet. "Gets for 'em!--GETS for 'em!
I'll tell you WHAT he gets for 'em! It beats this story o' Peters's,--it
beats the flood. It beats me! Ye know that boy, gentlemen; ye know how
he uster lie round his father's store, reading flapdoodle stories and
sich! Ye remember how I uster try to give him good examples and knock
some sense into him? Ye remember how, after his father's good luck,
he spiled all his own chances, and ran off with his father's waiter
gal--all on account o' them flapdoodle books he read? Ye remember how
he sashayed round newspaper offices in 'Frisco until he could write a
flapdoodle story himself? Ye wanter know what he gets for 'em. I'll tell
you. He got an interduction to one of them high-toned, highfalutin',
'don't-touch-me' rich widders from Philadelfy,--that's what he gets for
'em! He got her d