The room was furnished with six iron cots on which were placed straw mattresses and six honourable members of the new Legislature occupied these. They were close enough together to allow a bottle of whiskey to be freely passed from member to member at any hour of the night. They thought the beds were arranged with this in view and were much pleased. Ezra was the only man of the crowd who arrived in Raleigh with a valise or trunk. He had a carpet bag. The others simply had one shirt and a few odds and ends tied in red bandana handkerchiefs. Three of them had walked all the way to Raleigh and kept in the woods from habit as deserters. The other two rode on the train and handed their tickets to the first stranger they saw on the platform of the car they boarded. “What’s this for!” said the stranger. “Them’s our tickets. Ain’t you the door keeper?” “No, but there ought to be one to every circus. You’ll have one when you get to Raleigh.” The landlady, Mrs. Duke, apologised for the poor beds, when she showed them to their room. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, I can’t give you softer beds.” “That’s all right M’am! them’s fine. Us fellows been sleeping in the woods and in straw stacks so long dodgin’ ole Vance’s officers, them white sheets is the finest thing we’ve seed in four years, er more.” They were humble and made no complaints. But at the end of the week they gathered around the Rev. Ezra Perkins for a grave consultation. “When are we goin’ ter draw?” said one. “Air we ever goin’ ter draw?” asked another with sorrow and doubt. “What are we here fer ef we cain’t draw?” pleaded another looking sadly at Ezra. “Gentlemen,” answered Ezra, “it will be all right in a little while. The Treasurer is just cranky. We can draw our mileage Monday anyhow.” At daylight they took their places on the bank’s steps, and at ten o’clock when the bank opened, the doors were besieged by a mob of members painfully anxious to draw before it might be too late. Next morning there was a disturbance at the breakfast table. The morning paper had in blazing head lines an account of one James “Mileage,” who was a member of the Legislature from an adjoining county thirty-seven miles distant. He had sworn to a mileage record of one hundred and seven dollars. “That’s an unfortunate mistake, sir,” said Perkins. “Ten’ ter yer own business?” answered James. “I call it er purty sharp trick,” grinned his partner. “I call it stealin’,” sneered an honourable member, evidently envious. And James “Mileage” was his name for all time, but “Mileage” shot a malicious look at the member who had called him a thief. The next morning the paper of the Opposition had another biographical sketch on the front page. “I see your name in the paper this morning, Mr. Scoggins?” remarked Mrs. Duke, looking pleasantly at the member who had spoken so rudely to James “Mileage” the day before.