“Nipping weather for a picnic; a little cool, don't you think? One of those fellows looked like a friend of mine. Homer Tibbs, or as Homer might look if he were in disgrace. He had his hat hung on his eyes, and he slouched like a thief in melodrama, as he tacked up the bunting on this side of the car.” He continued to point out various familiar places, finally breaking out enthusiastically, as they drew nearer the town, “Hello! Look there--beyond the grove yonder! See that house?” “Yes, John.” “That's the Bowlders'. You've got to know the Bowlders.” “I'd like to.” “The kindest people in the world. The Briscoe house we can't see, because it's so shut in by trees; and, besides, it's a mile or so ahead of us. We'll go out there for supper to-night. Don't you like Briscoe? He's the best they make. We'll go up town with Judd Bennett in the omnibus, and you'll know how a rapid-fire machine gun sounds. I want to go straight to the 'Herald' office,” he finished, with a suddenly darkening brow. “After all, there may be some explanation,” Meredith suggested, with a little hesitancy. “H. Fisbee might turn out more honest than you think.” Harkless threw his head back and laughed; it was the first time Meredith had heard him laugh since the night of the dance in the country. “Honest! A man in the pay of Rodney McCune! Well, we can let it wait till we get there. Listen! There's the whistle that means we're getting near home. By heaven, there's an oil-well!” “So it is.” “And another--three--five--seven--seven in sight at once! They tried it three miles south and failed; but you can't fool Eph Watts, bless him! I want you to know Watts.” They were running by the outlying houses of the town, amidst a thousand descriptive exclamations from Harkless, who wished Meredith to meet every one in Carlow. But he came to a pause in the middle of a word. “Do you hear music?” he asked abruptly. “Or is it only the rhythm of the ties?” “It seems to me there's music in the air,” answered his companion. “I've been fancying I heard it for a minute or so. There! No--yes. It's a band, isn't it?” “No; what would a band----” The train slowed up, and stopped at a watertank, two hundred yards east of the station, and their uncertainty was at an end. From somewhere down the track came the detonating boom of a cannon. There was a dash of brass, and the travellers became aware of a band playing “Marching through Georgia.” Meredith laid his hand on his companion's shoulder. “John,” he said, “John----” The cannon fired again, and there came a cheer from three thousand throats, the shouters all unseen.