Vaniman, sitting close by, felt that a glance at a public sheet was not invading privacy. A smutted heading in wood type was smeared across the top of the page. It counseled: VOTE FOR BRITT. GIVE PHARAOH HIS KINGLY CROWN There was a broad, blank space in one of the upper corners of the sheet. Under the space was this explanation: Portrait of Tasper Britt, with his latest improvements. But, on second thought, out of regard for the feelings of our readers, we omit the portrait. The Squire, getting control of emotions which the observing Jones and his associates noted with rising interest, demurely explained to them the layout of the page after he had carefully inspected the sheet. Then Squire Hexter began to read aloud, in a tone whose twist of satire gave the text its full flavor: “We hasten to proclaim in the land of Egypt that Pharaoh Britt has reached for the scepter, though he had not loosed his grip on the gouge. You will know him here and hereafter by his everlasting grip on the gouge. He will take that gouge to Tophet with him. Then it will be heated red-hot and he will prance around hell astraddle of it. But in the meantime he is hot after the honors of this world. Give him his crown, say we. He has prepared a nice, new hair mattress on his brow where the diadem will rest easy. Under his coat of arms--to wit, a yellow he-goat rampant in a field of purple thistles--let him write the word 'Victory.'” The men in that room were Yankees, with a sense of humor as keen as a new bush scythe. The Squire sat back and wiped his spectacles and beamed on their laughter. Then he read on down the column, through the biting satire to the bitter end, having an audience whose hilarity would have delighted a vaudeville performer's soul. Therefore, it was with inspired unction that the reader delivered the “tag lines” of the screed. “We confess that we have a selfish purpose in paying this affectionate, brotherly tribute to Pharaoh. When he has deigned to refer to us in the past he has called us 'Useless' Britt. Now, if this tribute has the effect that we devoutly hope for, Pharaoh may be of a mind to give us back our right name. We ask nothing else in the way of recompense.” The Squire folded the paper carefully and put it away in his breast pocket with the manner of one caching a treasure. “Boys, what are you waiting for?” he inquired, with an affectation of surprise. Their wide grins narrowed into the creases of wonderment of their own. Hexter patted his breast where he had stowed away the paper. “Egypt has a literary light, a journalist who wields a pen of power, a shoemaker philosopher. And modest--not grasping! See how little he asks for himself. Why not give him a real present? Why not--” Spokesman Jones perceived what the counsel was aiming at and ecstatically shouted, “Gid-dap!” “Why not use real sandpaper?” urged the squire, with innocent mildness.