By noon that day, in the lulls between customers at the wicket, Vaniman had had a succession of run-ins with the demon of drowsiness--a particularly mischievous elf, sometimes, in business hours. Whenever he caught himself snapping back into wakefulness he found Vona's twinkle of amusement waiting for him. Once she pointed to the big figures on the day-by-day calendar on the wall. The date was February 21st. “Console yourself, Frank, dear,” she advised, teasing him. “The bank will be closed to-morrow and you can make Washington's Birthday your sleep day! But I do hope you can stay awake at our play this evening.” “The man who invented sleep as a blessing didn't take into account city brokers who change their minds about trains,” he returned. “I hope old Ike Jones will sing that 'Ring, ting! Foo loo larry, lo day' song of his all the way coming up from Levant. It'll be about the sort of punishment that Behind-time Barnes deserves.” A few minutes later the cashier was jumped out of another incipient nap by the clamor of bells. The two horses that whisked past, pulling a double-seated sleigh, were belted with bells. A big man with a lambrequin mustache was filling the rear seat measurably well. Folks recognized the team as a “let-hitch” from Levant. “Mr. Barnes comes late, but he comes in style and with all his bells,” Vona suggested. The equipage swung up beside the tavern porch and the big man threw off the robes and stamped in, leaving the driver to take the horses to the stable. Landlord Files had furnished an accompaniment for the clangor of the bells; he was pounding his dinner gong. The new arrival had a foghorn voice and used it in hearty volume in telling Mr. Files that his music was all right and mighty timely! “And that alligator seems to be calling for his grub, too,” he remarked, on his way to hang up his coat. “But he doesn't look any hungrier than I feel.” “Room?” inquired the landlord, hopefully, swinging the register book and pulling a pen out of a withered potato. “No room! Just dinner. I expect to be out of here by night.” Mr. Files stabbed the potato with a vicious pen thrust. He knew food capacity when he viewed it; there would be some profit from a lodging, but none from a two-shilling meal served to a man who had compared himself with that open-mouthed saurian. But the guest grabbed the penstock while it was still vibrating. He wrote across the book, with great flourishes: “Fremont Starr. State Bank Examiner. February 21st.” “A matter of record, landlord! Show's I'm here. Tells the world I was here on date noted. Never can tell when the law will call for records. Hotel registers are fine evidence. Always keep your registers.”