n minutes ago, and asked if Augustus were expecting any one up on
it.

"No, but the team's gone down to meet it just the same. Maybe there'll
be a runner or two; they pay 'bout as well as the big guns after all;
and then there's a chance of one of the syndicaters coming in on me at
any time now.--There's the team."

He went out on the veranda. The men within the office listened with
intensified interest, strengthened by that curiosity which is shown by
those in whose lives events do not crowd upon one another with such
overwhelming force, that the susceptibility to fresh impressions is
dulled. They heard the land-lord's cordial greeting, a confusion of
sounds incident upon new arrivals; then Augustus Buzzby came in,
carrying bags and travelling shawl, and, following him, a tall man in
the garb of a priest of the Roman Catholic Church. Close at his side was
a little girl. She was far from appearing shy or awkward in the presence
of strangers, nodding brightly to Octavius, who sat nearest the door,
and smiling captivatingly upon Joel Quimber, whereupon he felt
immediately in his pockets for a peppermint which, to his
disappointment, was not there.

The Colonel sprang to his feet when the guests entered, and quickly
doffed his felt hat which was balancing in a seemingly untenable
position on the side of his head. The priest, who removed his on the
threshold, acknowledged the courtesy with a bow and a keen glance which
included all in the room; then he stepped to the desk on the counter to
enter his name in the ponderous leather-backed registry which Augustus
opened for him. The little girl stood beside him, watching his every
movement.

The Flamstedites saw before them a man in the prime of life, possibly
forty-five. He was fully six feet in height, noticeably erect, with an
erectness that gave something of the martial to his carriage, spare but
muscular, shoulders high and square set, and above them a face deeply
pock-marked, the features large but regular, the forehead broad and
bulging rather prominently above the eyes. The eyes they could not see;
but the voice made itself heard, and felt, while he was writing. The men
present unconsciously welcomed it as a personality.

"Can you tell me if Mrs. Louis Champney lives near here?" he said,
addressing his host.

"Yes, sir; just about a mile down the street at The Bow."

"Oh, please, yer Riverence, write mine too," said the child who, by
standing on tiptoe at the h