During the spring and summer months, there was no pleasanter place than the long, low veranda of Mr. Woodruff's tavern, and it was very popular with those who had an idle hour at their disposal. This veranda was much patronised by Mr. Silas Tomlin, who, after the death of his wife, had no home-life worthy of the name. Silas was not socially inclined; he took no part in the gossip and tittle-tattle that flowed up and down the veranda. The most interesting bit of news never caused him to turn his head, and the raciest anecdote failed to bring a smile to his face. Nevertheless, nothing seemed to please him better than to draw a chair some distance away from the group of loungers, yet not out of ear-shot, lean back against one of the supporting pillars, close his eyes and listen to all that was said, or dream his own dreams, such as they might be. Mr. Sanders was well aware of Silas Tomlin's tavern habits, and this was what induced him to turn his feet in that direction. He expected to find Silas there at this particular hour and he was not disappointed. Silas was sitting aloof from the crowd, his chair leaning against one of the columns, his legs crossed, his eyes closed, and his hands folded in his lap. But for an occasional nervous movement of his thin lips, and the twitching of his thumbs, he might have served as a model for a statue of Repose. As a matter of fact, all his faculties were alert. The crowd of loungers was somewhat larger than usual, having been augmented during the day by three commercial agents and a couple of cotton-buyers. Lawyer Tidwell was taking advantage of the occasion to expound and explain several very delicate and intricate constitutional problems. Mr. Tidwell was a very able man in some respects, and he was a very good talker, although he wanted to do all the talking himself. He lowered his voice slightly, as he saw Mr. Sanders, but kept on with his exposition of our organic law. "Hello, Mr. Sanders!" said one of the cotton-buyers, taking advantage of a momentary pause in Mr. Tidwell's monologue; "how are you getting on these days?" "Well, I was gittin' on right peart tell to-day, but this mornin' I struck a job that's made me weak an' w'ary." "You're looking mighty well, anyhow. What has been the trouble to-day?" "Why, I'll tell you," responded Mr. Sanders, with a show of animation. "I've been gwine round all day tryin' to git up subscriptions for to build a flatform for Gus Tidwell. Gus needs a place whar he can stand an' explutterate on the Constitution all day, and not be in nobody's way." "Well, of course you succeeded," remarked Mr. Tidwell, good-naturedly. "Middlin' well--middlin' well. A coloured lady flung a dime in the box, an' I put in a quarter. In all, I reckon I've raised a dollar an' a half. But I reely believe I could 'a' raised a hunderd dollars ef I'd 'a' told 'em whar the flatform was to be built." "Where is that?" some one inquired.