The 'Old Cinch' were taking these attacks in silence, as beneath their notice. They took pains, however, in casual mention of the new force in town, to refer to him always as a 'Democrat.' This damned him with many. He called himself an 'Independent.' Which amused Charlie Waterhouse greatly. Everybody knew that a man who wasn't a decent Republican had to be a Democrat. In the nature of things. And they were waiting for his money and his energy to give out. Giving him, as Charlie Waterhouse jovially put it, the rope to hang himself with. Bill Schwartz took McGibbon's spectacles, tucked the towel around his scrawny neck, lathered chin and cheeks, and seizing his head firmly in a strong right hand turned it sidewise on the head-rest. McGibbon lay there a moment, studying the yellowish-white whiskers that waved upward above the towels in the next chair. Bill stropped his razor. 'How are you, Mr Boice?' McGibbon observed, quite cheerfully. Mr Boice made a sound, raised his head an inch. Heinie promptly pushed it down. 'Quite a story you had last week about the musicale at Mrs Arthur V. Henderson's.' Mr Boice lay motionless. What was up! Distinctly odd that either journal should be mentioned between them. Bad taste. He made another sound. 'Who wrote it?' No answer. 'Henry Calverly?' A grunt. 'Thought so!' McGibbon chuckled. Mr Boice twisted his head around, trying to see the fellow in the mirror. Heinie pulled it back. 'Got it here. Hand me my glasses, Bill, will you. Thanks.' McGibbon was sitting up, his face all lather, digging in his pocket. He produced a clipping. Read aloud with gusto:-- '“Mrs Stelton's art has deepened and broadened appreciably since she last appeared in Sunbury. Always gifted with a splendid singing organ, always charming in personality and profoundly, rhythmically musical in temperament, she now has added a superstructure of technical authority which gives to each passage, whether bravura or pianissimo, a quality and distinction.”' McGibbon was momentarily choked by his own almost noiseless laughter. Bill pushed his head down and went swiftly to work on his right cheek. Two other customers had come in. 'Great stuff that!' observed McGibbon cautiously, under the razor. '“Profoundly, rhythmically musical in temperament “! “A superstructure of technical authority”! Great! Fine! That boy'll do something yet. Handled right. Wish he was working for me.' Mr Boice, from whom sounds had been coming for several moments, now raised his voice. It was the first time Heinie had ever heard him raise it. Bill paused, razor in air, and glanced around. Pinkie Potter looked up from the shoes he was polishing. 'Well,' he roared huskily, 'what in hell's the matter with that!' Just then Bill turned McGibbon's head the other way. He too raised his voice. But cheerfully. 'Nothing much. Nice lot o' words. Only Mrs Stelton wasn't there. Sprained her ankle in the Chicago station on the way out.'