that?" Willard demanded, in vain. "What do you
know----"

Willard, certainly, knew nothing, and gave up the attempt to understand,
with a sigh.

A little later the vantage point of the court-house fence was
unoccupied. Of the two boys who had occupied it, one was making a
belated and rather disconsolate way toward Halloran's--the one who would
be boasting to-morrow that he had spent the last fifteen minutes with
Neil Donovan. The other boy stood listening outside the closed doors of
the hall.

* * * * *

It was half an hour later and it had been an important half-hour in Odd
Fellows' Hall, that uneventful but vital time when the newly made
creature that is the crowd is passive, gathering its forces slowly,
getting ready to fling the weight of them into one side of a balance
irrevocably, if it has decisions to make; the most important half-hour
of the evening if you were interested in the psychology of crowds. The
Honourable Joe Grant was not. He would have said that the first speech
dragged and the half-hour had been dull. Dull or significant, that
half-hour was over, and Green River was waking up. In the listening
hush of the hall the big moments of the evening, whatever they were to
be, were creeping nearer and nearer. Now they were almost here.

The Honourable Joe had just introduced Luther Ward and heavily resumed
his seat. He sat portly and erect and entirely happy behind the
thin-legged, inadequate looking table that held a water pitcher, his
important looking papers, and his watch. The ornately chased gold watch
that had measured so many epoch-making hours for Green River was in
public life again, like the Honourable Joe. He fingered it
affectionately, wiped his forehead delicately from time to time with a
purple silk handkerchief, followed Mr. Ward's remarks with unwavering
brown eyes, and smiled his benevolent, public-spirited smile. This was
his night indeed.

Behind the Honourable Joe, on the stage in a semicircular row of chairs
were the speakers of the evening, and before him was Green River.

The badly proportioned little hall was not at its best to-night. It was
too brightly lit and the footlights threw an uncompromising glare upon
the tiny stage. Red, white, and blue cheesecloth in crude, sharp
colouring draped windows and stage, making gay little splashes of colour
that emphasized the dinginess of the room. Only the Grand Army flag,
borrowed and draped elaboratel