If Wint had expected immediate conflict, he was to be disappointed. For after Kite left his office that day, nothing happened; neither that day, nor the next, nor the next. Amos told Wint that Kite would strike, in his own time, and strike below the belt. Wint laughed and said he was ready to fight, foul or fair. But--neither foul blow nor fair was struck. Radabaugh reported that his orders had been obeyed. Lutcher had left town, temporarily, it was said. His rooms off the alley were locked, and he had gone so far as to give Radabaugh a key, so that the marshal might make sure, now and then, that Lutcher’s store of drinkables was not disturbed. One shipment did come in for Mrs. Moody. It was labeled “Canned Goods”; but Jim Radabaugh made it his business to inspect all sorts of goods consigned to Mrs. Moody, and he found this particular box contained goods in bottles instead of cans. He emptied the bottles into the creek, across the railroad tracks from the station, and told Mrs. Moody about it. She threw a stick of firewood at him, then wept with rage because he dodged it successfully. For the rest, Hardiston was quiet. The lunch-cart man whom Radabaugh had suspected took his cart and left town. Kite met Wint on the street and greeted him as pleasantly as usual. Jack Routt cultivated him, and joked him about his ideas of morality. One night, at Routt’s home, he offered Wint a drink. Wint looked thoughtfully through the smoke of his pipe as though he had not heard. When Routt repeated the offer, Wint declined politely. The business of being Mayor occupied very little of Wint’s time. Early in June, Foster, the city solicitor, brought a stranger to see Wint about a street carnival which wanted to come to Hardiston the last week in June. Wint agreed to grant the permits necessary. “You understand,” he told the man, “that this is a dry town.” The stranger winked, and said he understood. Wint shook his head gravely. “I’m afraid you don’t understand,” he said. “This is a dry town. There’s no booze sold here. Last summer, I remember, there was some selling in connection with your carnival, here. If you try that this time, I’ll have to close you up.” The man looked surprised and disgusted. “What is this, a Sunday school?” he demanded. “No,” said Wint. “Just a dry town.” “How about the games?” Wint smiled good-naturedly. “Oh, don’t make them too raw. I’ve no objection to ‘The cane you ring, that cane you get.’” “Hell!” said the man. “We won’t make chicken feed.” “You don’t have to come.” But the stranger said they would come, all right. After he had gone, Wint told Foster the carnival would bear watching. Foster agreed, but said the merchants wanted it. “Brings the farmers to town every day, instead of just Saturday, you know.” “I know,” said Wint. “Well, let them come.”