“Our most cunning efforts were fruitless. We even threw water on him, but it was like throwing water on a drowned rat.” Thus did his slumbers defend themselves, and Jim Britt snore unchecked. But the dinner was not to flag. The Statesman from Tupelo took the head of the table and the chairman of the steering committee the foot, the repast proceeded while wine and humor flowed. It was a dream of a dinner, a most desirable dinner, a dinner that should stand for years an honor to Jim Britt of Last Chance. It raged from eight till three. Corks and jokes were popping while laughter walked abroad; speeches were made and songs were sung. Through it all, the serene founder of the feast slept on, and albeit eloquence took up his name and twined about it flowery compliment, he knew it not. Tranquilly on his lounge he abode in dear oblivion. Things mundane end and so did Jim Britt’s dinner. There struck an hour when the last song was sung, the last jest was made, and the last guest departed away. The Statesman from Tupelo superintended the transportation of Jim Britt to his room, and having made him safe, He of Tupelo went also out into the morning, and that famous banquet was of the perfumed past. It dawned Wednesday before the Statesman from Tupelo called again at Chamberlin’s to ask for the excellent Jim Britt. The Statesman from Tupelo explained wherefore he was thus laggard. “I thought,” he said to Chamberlin, “that our friend would need Sunday, Monday and Tuesday to straighten up his head.” “The man’s gone,” said Chamberlin; “he departed Monday morning.” “And whither?” “Home to Last Chance.” “What did he go home for?” “That dinner broke him, I guess. It cost about eighteen hundred dollars, and he only had a little over a hundred when the bill was paid.” The Statesman from Tupelo mused, while clouds of regret began to gather on his brow. His conscience had him by the collar; his conscience was avenging that bankruptcy of Jim Britt. The Statesman from Tupelo received Jim Britt’s address from the hands of Chamberlin’s clerk. The next day the Statesman from Tupelo wrote Jim Britt a letter. It ran thus: Chamberlin’s Hotel. My Dear Sir:-- Don’t come back. Write me in full the exact story of what you want and why you want it. I’ve got a copy of your bill from the Document Room, and so soon as I hear from you, shall urge the business before the proper committee. When Jim Britt’s reply came to hand, the Statesman from Tupelo--whom nobody could resist--prevailed on the committee to report the bill. Then he got the Speaker, who while iron with others was as wax in the hands of the Statesman from Tupelo, to recognize him to bring up the bill. The House, equally under his spell, gave the Statesman from Tupelo its unanimous consent, and the bill was carried in the blink of a moment to its third reading and put upon its passage. Then the Statesman from Tupelo made a speech; he said it was a confession.