“Smell of it!” he roared. “Don’t it smell good? Look at it! Don’t it look good? If you could eat it, ’twould taste good, you old droolers! Did you ever see so much money before in Palermo? No, you never did. Now, all you that have a claim against me of any kind, meet me at my brother’s office any time after to-day, with your interest figured compound at six per cent. No; reckon it better’n that--and even then I’ll give you a bonus on top. You’ll never be able to sneer again behind Hime Look’s back, you of Palermo. Bring your claims, good people!” “It’s the old army game, gents!” screamed the gray parrot. Again the Squire tried anxiously to lead his brother away out of the circle. Perspiration dripped from under the showman’s tall hat. His sound eye blazed. The other goggled fiercely. It was the anger of a man who was raging as much at himself and at the memory of mistakes and faults as at his auditors, the anger of a man who knew in his own heart that he was not as worthy as these yokels whom he had left behind him in the old home. He wanted to storm down the criticism and the blame that he feared--to scare them into silence. Under it all was shame--the shame of a domineering man who is ashamed to feel shame. “Hime,” pleaded his brother, “let’s not talk this over in public any longer. The people of Palermo are all good friends of ours. They haven’t been talking about you.” “No, they haven’t talked about you--that’s right,” shrilled Uncle Buck, who had advanced closely. “No, they’ve thought you was dead--and dead men of your calibre ain’t worth much talkin’ about.” Hiram whirled away from his brother’s restraint and glowered at the doughty old man. “I ain’t one mite afraid of you, Hime,” barked Lysimachus, thumping down his cane. “This is the same stick I’ve put across you when I ketched you stealin’ my apples, and if you tackle me I’ll slash you again, though you was grown taller’n Haman.” He came close to the furious man. “You might’s well shet up your wallet,” he said; “P’lermo ain’t sufferin’ for your money, much of it as you seem to have.” “That money won’t be put up till my debts are paid,” shouted Hiram. The old man’s fishy eye bored him with a significance he could not understand. It was evident that Lysimachus had a trump card. “You can’t pay, dum ye!” shrieked Uncle Buck, now furious in his turn, with the hysterical rage of the senile. “Why can’t I?” This also was bawled. “Because your old father mortgaged his farm after you run away, and then after he died your brother Phin worked and paid off every cent that was owed.” “Twenty can play as well as one!” said the gray parrot. Hiram, both hands still full of money, rubbed his forearm across his eyes, into which sweat was streaming. His movement knocked off his hat, and it rolled unheeded in the dust. Pitiful bewilderment wrinkled his face.