“You’re wrong, Gran’pap,” said the Loafer. “They didn’t dast fight afore a lady. Instead Lord jest ground his teeth. The paper sayd he knowd that the lost hair o’ the broad acres o’ the Desmons hed come to claim his own.” The Miller’s clay pipe fell to the floor and shattered into a hundred pieces. “Well, I’ll swan!” he exclaimed. “Why, this here artist was one o’ them Desmon boys ye was speakin’ of first off, wasn’t he?” “What happened next?” inquired the Teacher. “The article didn’t tell,” the Loafer replied. “It cut right off there an’ carried the reader back to Fairfax Castel. It was evenin’ an’ they was hevin’ a hunt ball.” “A hunt what?” The Patriarch leaned forward with his hand to his ear. “A hunt ball--a dance,” the pedagogue explained. “Over there after huntin’ they always have a dance.” “Mighty souls! but them English does enjoy themselves,” the old man murmured. “Goes huntin’ all day--takes the weemen along leavin’ no one behind to look after the place--then hes a dance after they gits back. Now ’hen I hunted foxes I was allus so low down tired an’ scratched up be the briars agin I got home, I was satisfied to draw me boots, rub some linnyment on me shins an’ go to bed. But go on. I guesst the paper’s right.” “That night, walkin’ up an’ down the terrace, Reginal’ Deeverox told Alice Fairfax the secret o’ his life, the article sayd, how he was Lord Desmon an’ how the other Lord Desmon was livin’ on stolen property. He ast her to hev him, an’ ez she didn’t say nawthin’ he jest clasped her to his boosum, the paper sayd. All this time Lord hed ben watchin’ from behind a statute. ’Hen the girl run away to tell her pap about it, Lord stepped out an’ faced Reginal’. “He sayd, ‘One of us must die.’ With that he catched Deeverox be the th’oat an’ tried to push him off the terrace. They was a clean drop o’ fifty foot there, with runnin’ water at the bottom. Reginal’ was quick an’ grabbed his foe ’round the waist. Back’ard an’ for’a’d they writhed, the paper sayd, twistin’ an’ cursin’. Now they was on the edge o’ the precipice, an’ Alice Fairfax, runnin’ to meet her loved one, ez the article explained, seen dimly outlined in the glare o’ the castel lights the black figures o’ the cousins ez they fought o’er the terrace of death. She was spelled. Sudden the one Desmon hurled the other Desmon from him. They was an awful cry ez the black thing toppled over the edge, the paper sayd.” The Loafer put his hand in his coat-pocket and brought it forth full of crushed tobacco leaves, with which he filled his pipe. Then he lighted a match and began smoking. “Well?” cried the men on the bench in unison. “Well?” repeated the Loafer. “Which Desmon was it?” asked the Tinsmith. “That’s jest where I’m stumped,” was the reply. “That’s jest what’s ben puzzlin’ me, too. Ye see that page hed ben tore out an’----” “Mighty souls!” gasped the Patriarch. “Did ye look fer it?” asked the Miller, rising and moving toward the door.