"What do they say?" asked Barclay, braiding a four-strand whip, and finding that his cunning of nearly fifty years had not left his fingers. "Oh, it isn't so much what they say--but you can tell, don't you know; it's what they don't say; they don't defend him. I guess they like him personally, but they know he's a thief; that's the idea--they simply can't defend him and they don't try. The government has got him dead to rights. Say," he went on, "just to be arguing, you know last evening I took a poll of the train--the limited--the Golden State Limited--swell train, swell crowd--all rich old roosters; and honest, do you know that out of one hundred and twenty-three votes polled only four were for him, and three of those were girls who said they knew his daughter at the state university, and had visited at his house. Wasn't that funny?" Barclay laughed grimly, and answered, "Well, it was pretty funny considering that I'm John Barclay." The suspense of the group in the shop was broken, and they laughed, too. "Oh, hell," said Mr. Mercheson, "come off!" Then he turned to McHurdie and tried to talk trade to him. But Watts was obdurate, and the man soon left the shop, eying Barclay closely. He stood in the door and said, as he went out of the store, "Well, you do look some like his pictures, Mister." There was a silence when the stranger went, and Barclay, whose face had grown red, cried, "Damn 'em--damn 'em all--kick a man when he is down!" Again the bell tinkled, and McHurdie went into the shop. Evidently a customer was looking at a horse collar, for through the glass door they could see Watts' hook go up to the ceiling and bring one down. "John," said the colonel, when Barclay had spoken, "John, don't mind it. Look at me, John--look at me! They had to put me in jail, you know; but every one seems to have forgotten it but me--and I am a dog that I don't." John Barclay looked at the old, broken man, discarded from the playing-cards of life, with the hurt, surprised look always in his eyes, and it was with an effort that the suave Mr. Barclay kept the choke in his throat out of his voice as he replied:-- "Yes, Colonel, yes, I know I have no right to kick against the pricks." Watts was saying: "Yes, he's in there now--with the boys; you better go in and cheer him up." And then at the upper right-hand entrance entered Gabriel Carnine, president of the State Bank, unctuous as a bishop. He ignored the others, and walking to Barclay, put out his hand. "Well, well, John, glad to see you; just came up from the mill--I was looking for you. Couldn't find Neal, either. Where is he?" The general answered curtly, "Neal is in Chicago, working on the _Record-Herald_." "Oh," returned Carnine, and did not pursue the subject further. "Well, gentlemen," he said, "fine winter weather we're having." "Is that so?" chipped in Dolan. "Mr. Barclay was finding it a little mite warm."