He inquired of one of Port Argent's citizens for news, and heard that the “Independent Reformers” had won an election sometime back; that they were out again now, and inclined to be vituperative among themselves; that Port Argent was again led by Marve Wood's ring, which was not such a distressing ring as it might be. Hennion was not in it now. No, but he was suspected of carrying weight still in the party councils, which perhaps accounted for the “ring's” not being so distressing as it might be. “He did more than he talked about,” said the garrulous citizen. “But speaking of talkers, there was a man here once named Aidee. You've heard of him. He's getting celebrated. Well, I'm a business man, and stick to my times. But I read Aidee's books. It's a good thing to do that much.” The observer of decades left the garrulous citizen, and went down Lower Bank Street. He noted the shapeless, indifferent mass and contour of the buildings on the river-front, the litter of the wharves, the lounging black barges beside them, the rumble of traffic on the bridge and in distant streets, the dusky, gliding river lapping the stone piers and wooden piles, and going on forever while men come and go. He thought how the stone piers would sometime waste and fall, and the Muscadine would still go on, turbid and unperturbed. “Adaptability seems the great test of permanence,” he thought. “Whatever is rigid is fragile.” In front of the Champney house he stopped and looked up past the lawn and saw old Henry Champney, sitting in a wicker chair that was planted on the gravel walk. He was leaning forward, his chin on his cane, and gazing absorbed at his two grandchildren at his feet, a brown-haired child and a dark-haired baby. They were digging holes in the gravel with iron spoons. What with the street, the railway, and the river, it might almost be said that from the Champney lawns one watched the world go by, clattering, rolling, puffing, travelling these its three concurrent highways. But Henry Champney seemed to take no interest now in this world's triple highways, nor to hear their clamour, but only cared now to watch the dark-haired baby, and listen to the little cooing voices. THE END End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Port Argent, by Arthur Colton