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git conquered, boys. Remember me on election day. I'm runnin’ for the trustee’s office.”

The men were impressed by these serious and slightly oratorical phrases. “We're fer ye, Jim; we put you to overseein’ the pore farm, didn't we? We're all true-blue Republicans, Jim.”

Mr. Sandage’s gravity dropped from him like a cloak. He slapped the nearest backs. “Much obliged, boys. I won't fergit the favour. By the way, have you seen Railroad Jones anywhere around here to-day?”

“He's nursin’ that bond issue in the County Court,” said one of the hillmen.

“I saw him goin’ acrost to his office a little while ago,” directed another. “I think he’s gittin’ ready fer a suit in the Circuit Court.”

“Well, I got to look him up. What's the Gran’ Jury doin’?”

“That Shelton murder case is comin’ up ag'in. They're gittin’ a lot of pistol-totin’ bills; an’ gamblin’. I understan’ they’ve billed Tim Fraley an’ Zed Parrum.”

“That so? Somebody ort to tell the boys an’ let ‘em skip out before the sheriff gits 'em.”

“That’s a fact.”

“Well, come uhlong, Abner, we got to be movin’.”

The youth moved forward mechanically and the two started across the sun-smitten square toward a small yellow office on the west side. On the way over, the poorhouse overseer paused to electioneer half-a-dozen groups, repeated his brief speech a number of times, and some hour later reached the little yellow building on the side of the hill.

The back part of Railroad Jones's office was fitted into an excavation in the earth while the front part was underpinned with timbers. To enter, the two callers were forced to climb a flight of stairs, and as Sandage went up, he stamped his feet and cleared his throat because he was not quite certain what were the formalities of entering an office; whether one shouted hello from the front, as if it were a residence, or simply entered without warning, as if it were a store. Not