man because the honest debts I
incurred in the service of that government are repudiated, because my
friends who helped it, Father Gibault, Vigo, and Gratiot, and others have
never been repaid. One of them is ruined."

A dozen men had sprung clamoring to their feet before he sat down. One,
more excited than the rest, got the ear of the company.

"Do we lack leaders?" he cried. "We have them here with us to-night, in
this room. Who will stop us? Not the contemptible enemies in Kentucky
who call themselves Federalists. Shall we be supine forever? We have
fought once for our liberties, let us fight again. Let us make a common
cause with our real friends on the far side of the Mississippi."

I rose, sick at heart, but every man was standing. And then a strange
thing happened. I saw General Wilkinson at the far end of the room; his
hand was raised, and there was that on his handsome face which might have
been taken for a smile, and yet was not a smile. Others saw him too, I
know not by what exertion of magnetism. They looked at him and they held
their tongues.

"I fear that we are losing our heads, gentlemen," he said; "and I propose
to you the health of the first citizen of Kentucky, Colonel George Rogers
Clark."

I found myself out of the tavern and alone in the cool May night. And as
I walked slowly down the deserted street, my head in a whirl, a hand was
laid on my shoulder. I turned, startled, to face Mr. Wharton, the
planter.

"I would speak a word with you, Mr. Ritchie," he said. "May I come to
your room for a moment?"

"Certainly, sir," I answered.

After that we walked along together in silence, my own mind heavily
occupied with what I had seen and heard. We came to Mr. Crede's store,
went in at the picket gate beside it and down the path to my own door,
which I unlocked. I felt for the candle on the table, lighted it, and
turned in surprise to discover that Mr. Wharton was poking up the fire
and pitching on a log of wood. He flung off his greatcoat and sat down
with his feet to the blaze. I sat down beside him and waited, thinking
him a sufficiently peculiar man.

"You are not famous, Mr. Ritchie," said he, presently.

"No, sir," I answered.

"Nor particularly handsome," he continued, "nor conspicuous in any way."

I agreed to this, perforce.

"You may thank God for it," said Mr. Wharton.

"That would be a strange outpouring, sir," said I.

He looked at me and smiled.

"What think you of this