Every one meant to shake hands with him, and, when the speech was over, those nearest swooped upon him, cheering and waving, and grasping at his hand. Then a line was formed, and they began to defile by him, as he stood on the steps, and one by one they came up, and gave him hearty greetings, and passed on through the court-house and out at the south door. Tom Meredith and Minnie Briscoe came amongst the others, and Tom said only, “Good old boy,” as he squeezed his friend's hand; and then, as he went down the hall, wiping his glasses, he asked Minnie if she believed the young man on the steps had risen from a sick bed that morning. It was five-o'clock when Harkless climbed the stairs to the “Herald” office, and his right arm and hand were aching and limp. Below him, as he reached the landing, he could see boys selling extras containing his speech (taken by the new reporter), and long accounts of the convention, of the nominee's career, and the celebration of his home-coming. The sales were rapid; for no one could resist the opportunity to read in print descriptions of what his eyes had beheld and his ears had heard that day. Ross Schofield was the only person in the editorial room, and there was nothing in his appearance which should cause a man to start and fall back from the doorway; but that was what Harkless did. “What's the matter, Mr. Harkless?” cried Ross, hurrying forward, fearing that the other had been suddenly reseized by illness. “What are those?” asked Harkless, with a gesture of his hand which seemed to include the entire room. “Those!” repeated Ross, staring blankly. “Those rosettes--these streamers--that stovepipe--all this blue ribbon.” Ross turned pale. “Ribbon?” he said, inquiringly. “Ribbon?” He seemed unable to perceive the decorations referred to. “Yes,” answered John; “these rosettes on the chairs, that band, and----” “Oh!” Ross exclaimed. “That?” He fingered the band on the stovepipe as if he saw it for the first time. “Yes; I see.” “But what are they for?” asked Harkless, touching one of the streamers curiously. “Why--it's--it's likely meant for decorations.” John picked up the ink-well, staring in complete amazement at the hard knot of ribbon with which it was garnished. “They seem to have been here some time.” “They have; I reckon they're almost due to be called in. They've be'n up ever sence--sence----” “Who put them up, Ross?” “We did.” “What for?” Ross was visibly embarrassed. “Why--fer--fer the other editor.” “For Mr. Fisbee?” “Land, no! You don't suppose we'd go to work and bother to brisken things up fer that old gentleman, do you?” “I meant young Mr. Fisbee--he is the other editor, isn't he?” “Oh!” said Ross, coughing. “Young Mr. Fisbee? Yes; we put 'em up fer him.” “You did! Did he appreciate them?” “Well--he seemed to--kind of like 'em.” “Where is he now? I came here to find him.” “He's gone.” “Gone? Hasn't he been here this afternoon?”