They spread them out on the table. The dates were, of course, different, and they differed in other minor particulars, but in the main they were exactly alike. And each one of them ended with an invitation to dinner. The members of the club looked at each other in amazement. Higgins was the first to speak. “Godfrey mighty!” he exclaimed. “Say, this is funny, ain't it? It's more'n funny; it's queer! By jimmy, it's more'n that--it's serious! Look here, fellers; is there anybody in this crowd that the Major's paid for anything any time?” They waited. No one spoke. Then, with one impulse, every face swung about and looked up to where, upon the wall, hung the life-size photograph of the Major, dignified, gracious, and gilt-framed. It had been presented to the club two months before by Cuthbertson Scott Hardee, himself. “Ike--Ike Peters,” said Higgins. “Say, Ike--has he ever paid you for havin' that took?” Mr. Peters, who was the town photographer, reddened, hesitated, and then stammered, “Why, no, he ain't, yet.” “Humph!” grunted Higgins. No one else said anything. One or two took out pocket memorandum books and went over some figures entered therein. Judging by their faces the results of these calculations were not pleasing. Obed was the first to break the painful silence: “Well!” he exclaimed, sarcastically; “ain't nobody got nothin' to say? If they ain't, I have. Or, at any rate, I've got somethin' to do.” And he rose and started to put on his coat. “Hi! hold on a minute, Obed, you loon!” cried Higgins. “Where are you goin'?” “I'm goin' to put my bill in Squire Baker's hands for c'lection, and I'm goin' to do it tonight, too.” He was on his way to the door, but two or three ran to stop him. “Don't be a fool, Obed,” said Higgins. “Don't go off ha'f cocked. Maybe we're gittin' scared about nothin'. We don't know but we'll get every cent that's owed us.” “Don't KNOW! Well, I ain't goin' to wait to find out. What makes me b'ilin' is to think how we've set still and let a man that we never saw afore last March, and don't know one blessed thing about, run up bills and RUN 'em up. How we come to be such everlastin' fools I don't see! What did we let him have the stuff for? Why didn't we make him pay? I--” “Now see here, Obed Gott,” broke in Weeks, the butcher, “you know why just as well as we do. Why, blast it!” he added earnestly, “if he was to come into my shop to-morrow and tip that old high hat of his, and smile and say 'twas a fine mornin and 'How's the good lady to-day?' and all that, he'd get ha'f the meat there was in the place, and I wouldn't say 'Boo'! I jest couldn't, that's all.” This frank statement was received with approving nods and a chorus of muttered “That's so's.”