"Humph--yes; that's the way wi' ever'thing in this blamed town; it's uther down yander, or right around the corner. But ef it was right here, how could I git to it? Deliver me from places whar they celebrate Christmas in the hottest part of June! Ef I ever git out'n the town you'll never ketch me here ag'in--I'll promise you that." "Oh, Mister, please don't say that!" wailed some humourist in the crowd. "There's hundreds of us that couldn't live without you." "Oh, is that you?" cried the countryman. "Tell your sister Molly that I'll be down as soon as I sell my cotton." This set the crowd in a roar, for though the humourist had no sister Molly, the retort was accepted as a very neat method of putting an end to impertinence. Inside the station another scene was in the full swing of action. Certain well-known citizens of Halcyondale had been pacing up and down the planked floor of the station apparently awaiting with some impatience for the moment to come when the train for Atlanta would be ready to leave. But the train itself seemed to be in no particular hurry. The locomotive was not panting and snorting with suppressed energy, as the moguls do in our day, but stood in its place with the blue smoke curling peacefully from its black chimney. Presently an access of energy among the employees of the station gave notice to those who were familiar with their movements that the train from Savannah was crossing the "Y." Mr. Tidwell, of Shady Dale, who was also among those who were apparently anxious to take the train for Atlanta, ceased his restless walking, and stood leaning against one of the brick pillars supporting the rear end of the structure. Major Tomlin Perdue, on the other hand, leaned confidently on the counter of the little restaurant, where a weary traveller could get a cup of hasty and very nasty coffee for a dime. The Major was acquainted with the vendor of these luxuries, and he informed the man confidentially that he was simply waiting a fair opportunity to put a few lead plugs into the carcass of the person at the far end of the station, who was no other than Mr. Tidwell. "Is that so?" asked the clerk breathlessly. "Well, I don't mind telling you that he has been having some of the same kind of talk about you, and you'd better keep your eye on him. They say he's 'most as handy with his pistol as Buck Sanford."