nip?" he asked, in a solemn, guarded fashion.
Gordon assented.

A bottle was produced from a cupboard, and, together
with a tin cup, handed to him.

"Luck," he pronounced half-heartedly, raising
the cup to his lips. When the other had gone
through a similar proceeding the process was carefully
reversed -- the bottle was returned to the cupboard,
the tin cup suspended upon its hook, the
steps retraced and the curtain once more coaxed up,
the door thrown open.

The group on the Courthouse lawn were stringing
away; on the steps the sheriff was conversing
with Valentine Simmons' brother, a drab individual
who performed the storekeeper's public services and
errands. The sale had been consummated. The
long, loose-jointed dwelling accumulated by successive
generations of Makimmons had passed out of
their possession.

A poignant feeling of loss flashed through Gordon's
apathy; suddenly his eyes burned, and an
involuntary sharp inspiration resembled a gasp, a
sob. A shadow ran over the earth. The owner of
the _Bugle_ stepped out and gazed upward. At the
sight of the soft, grey clouds assembling above an
expression of determined purpose settled upon his
dark countenance. He hurried into the office, and
reappeared a few minutes later, a peaked corduroy

[[84]]

p083 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p084w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p085

v?