“Not badly drawn, that similitude,” said Stearns, after the burst of laughter, by which these remarks were greeted, had a little subsided; “but methinks I see a flaw therein, friend Brush: you said our young republican's wisdom, alias ideas, all lay in his face; and then, in the matter of the fig-tree, you go on to intimate he _has one_ distinct idea in his head, thereby lessening the force and exactness of the comparison, as I think you will allow.” “I crave pardon, gentlemen,” cried the secretary; “I should have qualified; for, really, I have several times seriously suspected Bart to have ideas, or, at least, one whole idea of his own; and if you think that is too much to allow the individuals of the party generally, with whom I have compared him, why, then I must knock under, that's all.” “You are down! you are down, then, Brush!” shouted several, with another uproarious burst of laughter. Bart, the chief butt of this ridicule, in the mean while, was moving quietly about the room in performance of his bidden tasks, without appearing to notice a word that was uttered; and but for a certain rapid twinkling that might have been seen in his eyes, which, as he deliberately returned to his seat in the corner, were opened to an unusual extent, one would have supposed him utterly insensible to all the taunts and jeering laughter of which he had thus publicly been made the victim. “Ah! Patterson, here you are then, at last,” exclaimed Gale, as the former, with a disturbed and angry countenance, now came pushing his way into the midst of the company. “We have done nothing but drink and joke since you went out, scarcely; at all events, we have concluded on nothing, except to wait and learn the result of your discoveries: so now for your report.” “Ay, ay, Mr. Sheriff,” responded Brush. “But stay, take breath, and a glass of this glorious old Madeira, first. There! now tell us how the land lies abroad to-night.” “It lies but little to my liking,” growled the Sheriff, with an oath. The rascally dogs have altogether stolen the march of us. They have been swarming into town all the evening, as thick as bees, while not more than a dozen of our flint-and-steel men have yet got on the ground. It beats Beelzebub!--” “Our witnesses,” quickly interposed Judge Chandler, bowing with a significant smile and cautionary wink, while he threw a sidelong glance towards Bart, whom the wary eye of the judge had detected in slightly changing his position, so as to bring his ear more directly towards the speakers--“our witnesses and quarrelling suitors in court you mean, of course?”