struck it a blow that sent it over
twenty men's heads. A long knife flashed in Ristofalo's right hand. He
stood holding the rope in his left, stooping slightly forward, and
darting his eyes about as if selecting a victim for his weapon. A
stranger touched Richling from behind, spoke a hurried word in Italian,
and handed him a huge dirk. But in that same moment the affair was over.
There stood Ristofalo, gentle, self-contained, with just a perceptible
smile turned upon the crowd, no knife in his hand, and beside him the
slender, sinewy, form, and keen gray eye of Smith Izard.

The detective was addressing the crowd. While he was speaking, half a
score of police came from as many directions. When he had finished, he
waved his slender hand at the mass of heads.

"Stand back. Go about your business." And they began to go. He laid a
hand upon the rescued stranger and addressed the police.

"Take this rope off. Take this man to the station and keep him until
it's safe to let him go."

The explanation by which he had so quickly pacified the mob was a simple
one. The rescued man was a seller of campaign medals. That morning, in
opening a fresh supply of his little stock, he had failed to perceive
that, among a lot of "Breckenridge and Lane" medals, there had crept
in one of Lincoln. That was the sum of his offence. The mistake had
occurred in the Northern factory. Of course, if he did not intend to
sell Lincoln medals, there was no crime.

"Don't I tell you?" said the Italian to Richling, as they were walking
away together. "Bound to have war; is already begin-n."

"It began with me the day I got married," said Richling.

Ristofalo waited some time, and then asked:--

"How?"

"I shouldn't have said so," replied Richling; "I can't explain."

"Thass all right," said the other. And, a little later: "Smith Izard
call' you by name. How he know yo' name?"

"I can't imagine!"

The Italian waved his hand.

"Thass all right, too; nothin' to me." Then, after another pause: "Think
you saved my life to-day."

"The honors are easy," said Richling.

He went to bed again for two or three days. He liked it little when Dr.
Sevier attributed the illness to a few moments' violent exertion and
excitement.

"It was bravely done, at any rate, Richling," said the Doctor.

"_That_ it was!" said Kate Ristofalo, who had happened to call to see
the sick man at the same hour. "Doctor, ye'r mighty right! Ha!"

Mrs. Reisen expressed