"That's no pipe," said the tramp. "They tell us, however, that we are to have better times." "They are smokin'," said the tramp. Their roads separated, and they parted company. The sun was down when Milford reached the village. It was an easy matter to find Mulligan's saloon. One of the oldest citizens pointed it out. Mulligan was half-dozing behind his bar. Several men were at a table, playing cards. Milford made short work of his introduction. He told his story. There was but one way to get even. Mulligan laughed. That sort of revenge appealed to his Irish heart. He would give lessons, and it should not cost a cent. He put out his whisky bottle. His face beamed. He was glad to meet a civilized man. The very fact that Milford had come on such a mission was a proof of an improvement in the country. "Dorsey," he said. "Dorsey. He can't box; I never heard of him. Well, we'll make a jelly out of his face." They went out to supper together. "This man has heard of me and has come miles to get lessons," said Mulligan to the tavern keeper. They boxed till late at night and shook hands warmly at parting. Earnestness is genius, and when Milford set out for home, the moon on his right shoulder, he felt that he had made surprising progress. It was nearly daylight when he reached the end of his journey. The hired man was going out to the barn. "You are born to be a great man," said Mitchell. "The cards are shuffled and cut that way and you can't help it. What are you goin' to do now?" "I'm going to sleep for a few hours and then get to work." "When are you goin' to take another lesson?" "Day after to-morrow." "Ain't that feller a bird?" "He understands his business." "About when do you think you can tackle your job again?" "Not till I have learned how. I'm going to get some gloves and have you box with me between times." He went into the house and lay down, and when Mitchell came in he was asleep with his head on his fist. CHAPTER XIV. PEEPED IN AT HIM. Blakemore came out on Sunday morning, snapping his watch and complaining against the pall-bearing march of time. He was full of business. His pockets were stuffed with papers. He made figures on the backs of envelopes as he sat at the table. He asked after Milford. His wife said that the place had somehow lost its charm for Mr. Milford. Mrs. Goodwin and Miss Strand had seen him in the road. Mrs. Stuvic, standing near, pressed her lips close together. She shook her head. She did not understand him, she declared. Lately he had been seen in Antioch. She did not know what business could have taken him there. "You may not be supposed to know," said George, making his figures. "Now you keep still," she replied. "I am supposed to know more than you think for. I wasn't born yesterday, and I'm goin' to live longer than any of you, I tell you that."