“What is the program of the day, Governor?” asked Average Jones. “Rather a theatrical one. I’m to ride along Harrison Avenue to the reviewing stand, in the old coach-of-state of the Harrison family, a lofty old ark, high as a circus wagon, which has been patched up for the occasion. Just before I reach the reviewing stand, a silk cord is to be handed to me and I am to pull the veil from the great civic statue with that, as, I move on.” “Then I think that Mr. Waldemar and I will look the ground over. Could we get you by telephone, sir, if necessary?” “Any time up to seven o’clock.” “What do you think of the chance of their passing the bill over your veto?” asked Waldemar. “They are spending money as it has never been spent before,” replied Governor Arthur. “I’ll admit to you, Waldemar, that if I could find any legitimate method of calling Morrison off, I would not scruple to use it. It is, of course, Morrison’s money that we are fighting.” “Possibly—er—that, too—er—might be done,” drawled Average Jones. The governor looked at him sharply. “After the Linder affair, Mr. Jones,” said he, “I would follow you far. Call my secretary at any time, if you want me.” “Now to look over the line of parade,” said Average Jones as he and Waldemar emerged from the hotel. Half an hour’s ride brought them to the lively suburban city of Harrisonia, gay with flags and bunting. From the railroad station, where the guest of honor was to be met by the old coach, to the spot where the civic statue awaited its unveiling at his hands, was about half a mile along Harrison Avenue, the principal street. The walk along this street developed nothing of interest to Average Jones until they reached the statue. Here he paused to look curiously at a number of square platforms built out from windows in the business blocks. “For flash-light outfits,” explained Waldemar. “One of them is our paper’s.” “Flash-lights, eh?” said Average Jones. “And there’ll be fireworks and the air will be full of light and noise, under cover of which almost anything might be done. I don’t like it! Hello! What’s here?” He turned to the glass front of a prosperous-looking cigar store on the south side of the avenue and pointed to a shattered hole in the window. Behind it a bullet swung on a thread from the ceiling, and this agent of disaster the proprietor had ingeniously turned to account in advertising, by the following placard: AIM LOWER If you expect to shoot holes in _our_ prices. WE CHALLENGE OUR COMPETITION “Not bad,” approved Average Jones. “I feel a great yearning to smoke—” They entered the store and were served by the proprietor. As he was making change, Average Jones asked: “When was the bombardment?” “Night before last, some time,” replied the man. “Done by a deflected bullet, wasn’t it?” “Haven’t any idea how it was done or why. I got here in the morning and there she was. What makes you think it was a deflected bullet?”