nationality. But they have not
gobbled up one solitary foot of territory. Which is finer, grander, than
your Napoleonic glory! And yet it's selfish, of coh'se it is. But listen
here, there'll never be any Utopia, Altruria, Millennium, or what not,
that don't coincide with self-interest. And first among the races of the
earth, the Americans have _made_ 'em coincide, and I want to know
right now if the Americans are not the hope of the world!"

The orator paused for breath. He had to. And then surprise the most
lugubrious unexpectedly clouded his lank features. "Darn it, Jack," he
exclaimed in alarm, "if I ain't getting Reconstructed, right while I am
standing here!"

"_Talked_ yourself into it," Driscoll observed scornfully. "But
Dan, you can just put the South along with your Americans. The French
laughed at the North alone, but later, when--Well, just maybe it's a
good thing we did get licked."

Mr. Boone gasped. Sparks of indignation darted from his steel blue eyes.
The recoil needed a full minute to spend itself. Then a greater horror
appalled him, a horror of himself. "The Lawd help me," he burst forth,
"but you're right, Din Driscoll! You are! It _was_ for the best.
But don't you ever think I'm going to admit it again, to nary a living
mortal soul, myself included. W'y, it would, it would knock my editorial
usefulness--all _to_ smash. There," he added, "that's decided,
we're going back. The colonels want their mamas. They've been men long
enough, and they're plum' homesick. All the old grudges up there must be
about paid off by now, so's an ex-Reb can live in Missouri without train
robbing. _Libertas et natale solum_--It's our surrender, _at_
last."

Driscoll rose abruptly. "Lay down your pen, Shanks," he said. "You're
only trying to convert the converted. Of course I'm going too. That
there flag, being down here, did it. And don't you suppose _I've_
had letters from home too?"

Meagre Shanks jumped with relief. He straightened throughout his spare
length. As the smell of battle to the war charger, the pungent odor of
printer's ink wet on galley proofs assailed his nostrils. There were
visions, of double-leaded, unterrified thunderbolts crashing from the
old Gutenberg, back in Booneville.

"Missouri," he breathed in fire, "Missouri will sho'ly stay Democratic."

Both men glowed. They were buoyant, happy. But these two could not so
soon be quit of the enervating Land of Roses. A pair of countenances
fell to