The crowd was gaping at the rickety place in the foundation, and one man pulled a loose stone out and let the cold air of the cave into the room. "Lige Bemis came to your house, Mr. Johnnie Barclay, got into the cave from your cellar, broke through this wall, and stole the book that contained the forgery made to cover General Hendricks' disgrace. And who caused that disgrace but the overbearing, domineering John Barclay, who made that old man steal to pay John Barclay's taxes, back in the grasshopper year, when the sheriff and the jail were almost as familiar to him as they are now,--by all counts. Ah, John Barclay," said the Irishman, turning to the crowd, "John Barclay, John Barclay--you're a brave little man sometimes; I've seen you when I was most ungodly proud of you; I've seen you do grand things, my little man, grand things. But you're a coward too, Johnnie; sitting in your own house while your horse-thief friend used your cellar to work out the disgrace of the man who gave his good name to save your own--that was a fine trick--a damn fine trick, wasn't it, Mr. Barclay?" Barclay started to go, but the crowd blocked his way. Dolan saw that Barclay was trying to escape. "Turn tail, will you, my little man? Wait one minute," cried Dolan. "Wait one minute, sir. For what was you conniving against the big man? I know--to win your game; to win your miserable little game. Ah, what a pup a man can be, Johnnie, what a mangy, miserable, cowardly little pup a man can be when he tries--and a decent man, too. Money don't mean anything to you--you got past that, but it's to win the game. Why, man, look at yourself--look at yourself--you'd cheat your own mother playing cards with matches for counters--just to win the game." Dolan waved for the crowd to break. "Let him out of here, and get out yourselves--every one of you. This is public property you're desecrating." Dolan sat alone in his office, pale and trembling after the crowd had gone. Colonel Culpepper came puffing in and saw the Irishman sitting with his head in his hands and his elbows on the table. "What's this, Jake--what's this I hear?" asked the colonel. "Oh, nothing," answered Dolan, and then he looked up at the colonel with sad, remorseful eyes. "What a fool--what a fool whiskey in a man's tongue is--what a fool." He reached under his cot for his jug, and repeated as he poured the liquor into a glass, "What a fool, what a fool, what a fool." And then, as he gulped it down and made a wry face, "Poor little Johnnie at the mill; I didn't mean to hit him so hard--not half so hard. What a fool, what a fool," and the two old men started off for the harness shop together. Neal Ward that night, in the _Banner_ office alone, wrote to his sweetheart the daily letter that was never mailed.