He conducted his hermit shop here for twenty years. Say he
was twenty-five when he took off his hat at the gate. That leaves
twenty years for him to account for, or else be docked. Where did he
spend that ten and two fives? I'll give you my idea. Up for bigamy.
Say there was the fat blonde in Saint Jo, and the panatela brunette at
Skillet Ridge, and the gold tooth down in the Kaw valley. Redruth gets
his cases mixed, and they send him up the road. He gets out after they
are through with him, and says: 'Any line for me except the crinoline.
The hermit trade is not overdone, and the stenographers never apply to
'em for work. The jolly hermit's life for me. No more long hairs in
the comb or dill pickles lying around in the cigar tray.' You tell me
they pinched old Redruth for the noodle villa just because he said he
was King Solomon? Figs! He /was/ Solomon. That's all of mine. I guess
it don't call for any apples. Enclosed find stamps. It don't sound
much like a prize winner."

Respecting the stricture laid by Judge Menefee against comments upon
the stories, all were silent when the passenger who was nobody in
particular had concluded. And then the ingenious originator of the
contest cleared his throat to begin the ultimate entry for the prize.
Though seated with small comfort upon the floor, you might search in
vain for any abatement of dignity in Judge Menefee. The now
diminishing firelight played softly upon his face, as clearly
chiselled as a Roman emperor's on some old coin, and upon the thick
waves of his honourable grey hair.

"A woman's heart!" he began, in even but thrilling tones--"who can
hope to fathom it? The ways and desires of men are various. I think
that the hearts of all women beat with the same rhythm, and to the
same old tune of love. Love, to a woman, means sacrifice. If she be
worthy of the name, no gold or rank will outweigh with her a genuine
devotion.

"Gentlemen of the--er--I should say, my friends, the case of Redruth
/versus/ love and affection has been called. Yet, who is on trial? Not
Redruth, for he has been punished. Not those immortal passions that
clothe our lives with the joy of the angels. Then who? Each man of us
here to-night stands at the bar to answer if chivalry or darkness
inhabits his bosom. To judge us sits womankind in the form of one of
its fairest flowers. In her hand she holds the prize, intrinsically
insignificant, but worthy of our noblest efforts to win as a guerdon
of