Beasley's front door was thrown open, and there stood Beasley himself in evening dress, bowing and smiling, but not at us, for he did not see us. The bright hall behind him was beautiful with evergreen streamers and wreaths, and great flowering plants in jars. A strain of dance-music wandered out to us as the door opened, but there was nobody except David Beasley in sight, which certainly seemed peculiar--for a ball! “Rest of 'em inside, dancin',” explained Mr. Peck, crouching behind the picket-fence. “I'll bet the house is more'n half full o' low-necked wimmin!” “Sh!” said Grist. “Listen.” Beasley had begun to speak, and his voice, loud and clear, sounded over the wind. “Come right in, Colonel!” he said. “I'd have sent a carriage for you if you hadn't telephoned me this afternoon that your rheumatism was so bad you didn't expect to be able to come. I'm glad you're well again. Yes, they're all here, and the ladies are getting up a quadrille in the sitting-room.” (It was at this moment that I received upon the calf of the right leg a kick, the ecstatic violence of which led me to attribute it to Mr. Dowden.) “Gentlemen's dressing-room up-stairs to the right, Colonel,” called Beasley, as he closed the door. There was a pause of awed silence among us. (I improved it by returning the kick to Mr. Dowden. He made no acknowledgment of its reception other than to sink his chin a little deeper into the collar of his ulster.) “By the Almighty!” said Simeon Peck, hoarsely. “Who--WHAT was Dave Beasley talkin' to? There wasn't nobody THERE!” “Git out,” Grist bade him; but his tone was perturbed. “He seen that reporter. He was givin' us the laugh.” “He's crazy!” exclaimed Peck, vehemently. Immediately all four members of his party began to talk at the same time: Mr. Schulmeyer agreeing with Grist, and Mr. Cullop holding with Peck that Beasley had surely become insane; while the “Journal” man, returning, was certain that he had not been seen. Argument became a wrangle; excitement over the remarkable scene we had witnessed, and, perhaps, a certain sharpness partially engendered by the risk of freezing, led to some bitterness. High words were flung upon the wind. Eventually, Simeon Peck got the floor to himself for a moment. “See here, boys, there's no use gittin' mad amongs' ourselves,” he vociferated. “One thing we're all agreed on: nobody here never seen no such a dam peculiar performance as WE jest seen in their whole lives before. THURfore, ball or NO ball, there's somep'n' mighty wrong about this business. Ain't that so?” They said it was. “Well, then, there's only one thing to do--let's find out what it is.” “You bet we will.” “I wouldn't send no one in there alone,” Peck went on, excitedly, “with a crazy man. Besides, I want to see what's goin' on, myself.”--“So do we!” This was unanimous.