I could not rid myself of the remembrance of the figure, and my mental eye kept looking about for him. Gong! Gong! There was the clatter of the horses’ hoofs. Gong! Gong! The entire fire company sprang through its doors. Gong! Gong! “There he is!” I cried to myself, tingling in every hair of my head, “there he is!” It was the flash of the figure that I saw, driving horses breakneck, to save his fellow men. VIII This morning I am making a tour of inspection with the Great Axilla. We are driving in his chariot, which is a wide-seated, low-swung ox-cart drawn by a yoke of white oxen. The Excelsior has other means of faster locomotion, but he abhors those vehicles, while I am made nervous by the slow speed of our ox-cart. “Why are you so fidgety, puny one?” asked the Excelsior, “evidently the inhabitants of your country get small enjoyment out of life, because they do not train themselves to observe. If one travels faster than an ox can walk, it is not possible for him to observe the indispensable details of this world. I am going through life for the last time, my little fellow, and I want to see all that there is. I am in no hurry.” We rode along in frisky pomp, and I tried to sit still. “Who lives in that great mansion?” I asked, as we jaunted past the abode of some evidently wealthy citizen. “His name was Missed-It.” “Is he dead?” “Yes, he died yesterday.” “What a strange name;” I mused. “No, not if you knew him,” said the Excelsior, “you know I never allow my great folk to have permanent names until they are dead. Then I name them. If you will go some other time to visit our cemetery you will see by the tombstones that several important personages have passed away this winter. You will see that I have had their names cut deep in the stones. For instance, ‘Natural Poser’ died in November; likewise ‘Poor Imitation.’ Then in December, we lost ‘Anybody’s Flirt,’ and a little later ‘Sublime Assurance’ had to die. And now little old ‘Missed-It’ is to be tucked away. He was certainly very rich.” “How much did he leave?” “He left everything.” The ox-cart slowly mounted a snow-covered hill, and I kept quiet. Presently my host said: “There are no pockets to our shrouds; neither are there money drawers in our burial vaults; and that man’s coffin could not hold a tithe of what he amassed.” “Why, how much was he worth?” “Ninety billion buttons!” exclaimed the Excelsior, his eyes bulging in spite of himself. “Buttons? Are buttons the coin of your realm?” I asked, smiling. “You need not be so supercilious, my small guest,” snapped the Excelsior, “for I adopted our currency system from your own people.” “How is that?”