has came."

Hearing Brotherton's noise Van Dorn appeared, to summon his guest to the
private office.

"Well, you lucky old dog!" was Mr. Brotherton's greeting. "Well,
say--this is his honor, the Mayor, come up to collect your dog tax!
Well, say!" As he walked into the office all the secret society pins and
charms and signets--the Shriners' charm, the Odd Fellows' links, the
Woodmen's ax, the Elks' tooth, the Masons' square and compass, the
Knights Templars' arms, were glistening upon his wrinkled front like a
mosaic of jewels!

Mr. Brotherton shook his friend's hand, repeating over and over, "Well,
say--" After the congratulatory ceremony was finished Mr. Brotherton
cried, "You old scoundrel--I'd rather have your luck than a license to
steal in a mint!" Then with an eye to business, he suggested: "I'll just
about open a box of ten centers down at my home of the letters and arts
for you when the boys drop around!" He backed out of the room still
shaking Mr. Van Dorn's hand, and still roaring, "Well, say!" In the
outer office he waved a gracious hand at Miss Mauling and cried, "Three
sugars, please, Sadie--that will do for cream!" and went laughing his
seismic laugh down the stairs.

That evening the cigar box stood on the counter in Brotherton's store.
It was wreathed in smilax like a votive offering and on a card back of
the box Mr. Brotherton had written these pious words:

"In loving memory of the late Tom Van Dorn,
Recently engaged.
For here, kind friends, we all must lie;
Turn, Sinner, turn before ye die!
_Take_ one."

Seeing the box in the cloister and the brotherhood assembled upon the
walnut bench Dr. Nesbit, who came in on a political errand, sniffed, and
turned to Amos Adams. "Well, Amos," piped the Doctor, "how's Lincoln
this evening?"

The editor looked up amiably at the pudgy, white-clad figure of the
Doctor, and replied casually though earnestly, "Well, Doc Jim, I
couldn't seem to get Lincoln to-day. But I did have a nice chat with
Beecher last night and he said: 'Your friend, Dr. Nesbit, I observe, is
a low church Congregationalist.' And when I asked what he meant Beecher
replied, 'High church Congregationalists believe in New England; low
church Congregationalists believe in God!' Sounds like him--I could just
see him twitching his lips and twinkling his eyes when it came!" Captain
Morton looked suspiciously over his steel-bowed glasses to say