“Over to the St. Nick--met up ’ith some o’ the boys, an’ set into a little game fer a while.” “See Mendenhall?” “Yep--he’ll be ’long. Gosh! it’s a regular Shawneetown flood outside!” And the man waved his big hat in a wide arc, the spray from it spitting angrily as it sprinkled the fire in the grate. “So it’s all right, is it?” “Ump huh.” “How about the time lock?” “Oh, George says they don’t never use that--haven’t sence the day the senate ’p’inted that committee to count the money in the treasury. ’Member? By gosh, didn’t pore ol’ Jim hustle to get a special train an’ haul that money down from Chicago, though?” The secretary of state wagged his long head and chuckled. “That thing lost him e’enamost fifty thousan’ in int’rust, he tol’ me onct,” the secretary of state went on, “an’ he hain’t never been able sinct to make ary long loan.” Again he laughed, and, the spirit of reminiscence being upon him, he went on: “One time ’fore the war, the legislature ’p’inted a countin’ committee, an’ ol’--oh, what’s ’is name?--you know--from Gallatin County--he ’as treasur’ then, an’ the’ wasn’ more’n about fifty thousan’ in the safe, but he ’as game, an’ when the committee ’peared next mornin’, he says, ‘Cert’n’y, gentlemen,’ an’ handed ’em out about ten thousan’ in them old green dollar bills, an’ says: ‘When yo’re done countin’ o’ _them ’ere_, I’ll give you all some more.’ An’ in ’bout an hour they reckoned they’d take _his_ figur’s--they’d have to do.” Grigsby’s heart lightened, and he became almost gay, ordering much drink. And for an hour the two men sat there, waiting and smoking, and drinking whisky--Jennings bourbon and Grigsby rye--and were content. Though every time the yowl of a locomotive was borne to him on the cold, wet night, Grigsby jerked out his watch. And once he started at a short knock on the door, but it was only Mendenhall. After midnight Grigsby’s anxiety deepened, and he ceased to pay attention to Jennings’ stories of politics down in “southern Eellinoy,” stories about Don Morrison and John A. Logan. At twelve-forty he rose and trod the floor, but Jennings’ long form was stretched out before the fire, his whisky glass was at his elbow, and he said from time to time: “Oh, fer God’s sake, Bill, set down--they’ll be ’long all right.” “Isn’t that the Wabash?” said Grigsby, cocking his head at the night cry of a locomotive. “I don’ know,” said Jennings, who was growing mellow, “on’y whistles I could ever tell was them on the ol’ O. and M., ’ceptin’ o’ course, the toot of the _Three States_, which is now at Cairo, ef she hain’t stuck on a mud bank over on the Mizzouri shore some’er’s ’round Bird’s Landin’.” Grigsby looked at his watch. It was ten minutes of one, and just as he dolefully announced the hour the door opened, and Hennessey entered, carrying a leather traveling-bag. Grigsby leaped toward him, his itching fingers outstretched to seize the valise. “Is it all there?” he exclaimed.