"Jim," said his wife, and her tone almost froze him. He looked at her motionless, his mouth and eyes open. "Jim," she said, in a low voice, "the postmaster's been appointed." He dropped his knife and fork, a sudden gleam came to his eyes, then the grin broke out all over his big face. He stretched out his hand to wool his boy's head again, when his wife looked across the table at him and cried: "Oh, Jim, no--don't--you don't understand. It's not you--it's Pusey." He stared at her in utter silence for a minute, his wife looking at him with tears in her eyes, and her son trying hard to swallow the lump that came into his throat when mother cried. The little girl looked up with big eyes; even the baby was still. At last Rankin spoke. "How do you know?" he asked. "Willie heard it, down town, on his way home from school." "I don't believe it," he said doggedly. "Oh, hones', papa," the boy protested, as if his veracity had been impugned, "cross my heart it's true! It's hangin' up down town in front of the telegrapht office, an' it's in the paper, too. I heard _ever'body_ talkin' 'bout it, hope to die I did." Rankin stared at his son an instant, and then slowly turned his gaze on his wife. A look had come into his face which it grieved her to see, a look of utter, despairing anguish. "Jim, you know you mistrusted something, you know you did. You'd never own up to it, but you know you did." Rankin's lip quivered, and then, suddenly, he bent his elbows, put his arms on the table before him, and bowing his curly head upon their enormous muscles he burst into tears. His huge back heaved with his sobs, and his wife, hastening around to him, put her arms about his shoulders, laid her thin cheek to his curly hair, and then as her own tears rained fast, she said at last: "Don't, Jimmy, don't; you'll break my heart. I wouldn't mind it--you can get somethin' else." "Oh, 'tain't that," came his voice, "but I thought he was my friend, I thought he was my friend. I made that boy, an' I was so proud of him. An' now--an' now--he's thrown me down, he's thrown me down!" He ceased his sobbing and was still. His wife stood by him, patting him now on the back, now running her fingers through his curls. At last he raised himself, rubbed the tears from his eyes, and, pulling out his handkerchief, blew his nose with a mighty blast. "Your supper'll get cold. The old man's a fool, hain't he, Fannie?" He looked at his little daughter, and then in turn at them all, saw their tear-stained faces, and then he said: "Well, I'm makin' a pleasant home an' fireside campaign fer ye here, hain't I? But I don't b'lieve it, that's all, I don't b'lieve Jerry Garwood 'uld throw me down, without some good reason. I won't believe it yet. There's some explanation."