I did not take issue with his appeal; I passed him in, amused at the thought that two of my characters had been thrown out of my house and that another one had entered, firm in the rascally belief that he had convinced me of his courage and his determination to risk his blood in the defense of my dignity. The final curtain fell, and I stood near the door, not to receive congratulations upon the bad performance, but to seek food for my eyes. Miss Rodney stopped to tell me of her delightful evening. Bugg Peters hung back to say that the "hoarse feller with the table cloth wrapped round him wan't no slouch." I saw the Senator coming, gesticulating, talking. I saw _her_. I saw her face turn pale and then to pink as she approached. The Senator did not appear to see me, so busy was he with explaining to an acquaintance the merit of the performance; and he would have led her by, but in a burst of frank energy she broke loose from him and held out her hand to me. "Why, Belford," said the Senator, "I didn't see you. Great show, Sir. Fine piece of work, eh, Florence?" "I didn't think so, but I confess that I'm not much of a judge," she answered, smiling at me. "Oh, well, it has its faults, and so have we all, but it was an infamous shame that we couldn't open here without a disturbance." "Yes," said I, "but those two men gave a better piece of acting than we could find on any stage." "Oh, yes. Good fellows when sober, Sir. The pilot's family is all right. I don't know anything about Vark's people, but he'll do well enough when sober, Sir. Well, Florence." He led her away, and she looked back with a nod and a smile--a bright and graceful picture as she passed through the outer door. And all that night I saw her, always led away, but always looking back with a nod and a smile. CHAPTER XX. GLEANING THE FIELD. A vagabond artist came to town and I employed him to make sketches of Peters, Mason and Vark. It was easy to get a pose from the pilot and the notorious one, but after his "juniper spree" the shoemaker had locked himself in his shop. But we hammered his door day after day, and one morning we heard the sliding of the bolt. "Come in," said Vark. "But let me tell you that I am in no shape to do work." He had spread a blanket on the floor, with a bundle of leather at one end, and with books scattered about. I took up two volumes to find the plays of Marlowe and the snarling complaint of old Hobbs. "What do you want, boys?" "I want you to stand for a few moments just as you are," said I. "For a picture? What do you want with a picture of me? I'm nobody." "Oh, yes. You've lived here thirty years, you know."