“Not one.” His tone was one of utter hopelessness. It gave a tragic touch to his drooping figure. The boy crept into his father's arms; his movement gave a new direction to the latter's thoughts. “I expect you're plumb tuckered out, son,” he said gently, smiling sadly down on the grave, upturned face. “I expect bed's about the best place for you; what do you say?” The child nodded wearily. Rogers turned to the innkeeper. “I suppose you can House us over night?” he said. “To be sure I can,” answered Mr. Tucker promptly. “That's my business; entertainment for man and beast.” “I'll put my boy to bed then; show a way with a light, will you?” he rose stiffly with the child in his arms, and preceded by the innkeeper, carrying a lamp, quitted the room. A few minutes later the two men returned to the bar, and Rogers resumed his chair. His attitude was one of profound dejection. His hope was dying a hard death. Perhaps he could not have told if he had tried, just all he had expected from his return to Benson, but for days and weeks and months, it had been the background of his splendid dreams. Not heeding the presence of his host, he leaned forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees, and his chin sunk in his palms, grim, desperate. The innkeeper seated himself at the opposite side of the room, and fell to studying him. He had seen men look much as he looked, who had lost their last dollar at cards. Mrs. Tucker, thrilled and edified, and under escort of the faithful Jim, carrying a lantern, returned from the lecture and entered the tavern by a rear door. Her husband presently heard her footsteps in the room overhead, where the heels of her shoes tapped the floor aggressively; and he muttered the single word “Tantrums,” under his breath, while his face took on an expression of great resignation. Here Rogers broke the silence. “Hope I ain't keeping you,” he said. “You ain't,” answered Mr. Tucker, with what was for him unusual decision. “I didn't know but you might want to close up,” explained Rogers civilly. “I don't,” returned Mr. Tucker, with quiet determination. “I want to chew a little more tobacco before I go to bed.” There was another long pause. Rogers continued to stare into vacancy, and Mr. Tucker, round-eyed and wondering, continued to stare at Rogers. They might have been sitting thus ten minutes, when suddenly the street door swung open, and three men entered the room. The first of these was Captain Nathan Gibbs, editor of The True Whig; The captain, whose title had been derived from the militia, was blond and florid, and attired in immaculate broadcloth and spotless linen. He was, perhaps, five and thirty years old, but he had been a man of many and varied activities.