neral would lead forth the silver-haired relic of former
greatness, like some rare and fragile waxwork figure, and trumpet
his pristine eminence to his fellow citizens!

General Deffenbaugh was the Voice of Elmville. Some said he was
Elmville. At any rate, he had no competitor as the Mouthpiece. He
owned enough stock in the _Daily Banner_ to dictate its utterance,
enough shares in the First National Bank to be the referee of its
loans, and a war record that left him without a rival for first
place at barbecues, school commencements, and Decoration Days.
Besides these acquirements he was possessed with endowments. His
personality was inspiring and triumphant. Undisputed sway had
moulded him to the likeness of a fatted Roman emperor. The tones of
his voice were not otherwise than clarion. To say that the General
was public-spirited would fall short of doing him justice. He
had spirit enough for a dozen publics. And as a sure foundation
for it all, he had a heart that was big and stanch. Yes; General
Deffenbaugh was Elmville.

One little incident that usually occurred during the Governor's
morning walk has had its chronicling delayed by more important
matters. The procession was accustomed to halt before a small brick
office on the Avenue, fronted by a short flight of steep wooden
steps. A modest tin sign over the door bore the words: "Wm. B.
Pemberton: Attorney-at-Law."

Looking inside, the General would roar: "Hello, Billy, my boy." The
less distinguished members of the escort would call: "Morning,
Billy." The Governor would pipe: "Good morning, William."

Then a patient-looking little man with hair turning gray along the
temples would come down the steps and shake hands with each one of
the party. All Elmville shook hands when it met.

The formalities concluded, the little man would go back to his
table, heaped with law books and papers, while the procession would
proceed.

Billy Pemberton was, as his sign declared, a lawyer by profession.
By occupation and common consent he was the Son of his Father.
This was the shadow in which Billy lived, the pit out of which he
had unsuccessfully striven for years to climb and, he had come
to believe, the grave in which his ambitions were destined to be
buried. Filial respect and duty he paid beyond the habit of most
sons, but he aspired to be known and appraised by his own deeds and
worth.

After many years of tireless labour he had become known in certain
quarters far