“I've had that one eleven years, and it 'ain't been filled up yet,” averred Mr. Files, inspecting the potentate's signature as sourly as if he were estimating by how much the lavish use of ink had reduced the possible dinner profit. “You're the new appointment, hey? I heard you speak, one time, over at the political rally in the shire town.” “Both my enemies and my friends would have advised you to stay right here on your porch--saying that you could hear me just as well, if you didn't care to make the trip to the shire,” said Mr. Starr, lifting the mat of his mustache in a wide smile. “But when they call me 'Foghorn Fremont' I'm never one mite offended. 'Let your light shine and your voice be heard,' is my motto in politics.” “Shouldn't wonder if it's a good one, when they get to passing around the offices,” admitted Files. He started on his way to the kitchen. At that moment President Britt entered, having answered the gong with the promptitude of a fireman chasing a box alarm. “What have you on the fire, landlord?” called Mr. Starr, absorbed in the dinner topic. “Boiled dinner!” Britt did not show the enthusiasm that was exhibited by the other guest. “Nothing like a boiled dinner after a long ride,” Mr. Starr affirmed. “Plenty of cabbage with mine, if you'll be so kind!” Files gave Mr. Britt some information that he thought might be of interest. “Here's the new bank examiner. Seeing that you probably have business together, I'll set both of you at the same table.” He retired. After the commonplaces of getting acquainted, the two tacked the boiled dinner. “Let's see--who's your cashier?” inquired Starr, chewing vigorously behind the mask of his mustache. “Young fellow named Vaniman. I have let him take full charge of the bank business. He seems to know all the ropes.” “Poor policy, Britt! Poor policy!” stated the examiner, vehemently. “Not a word to say against Vaniman--” He halted on the word and opened his eyes on Britt. “Vaniman! A name that sticks. There was a Vaniman of Verona. Easy to remember! There was some sort of a money snarl, as I recollect.” “It was the young chap's father.” “And you're letting the son run your bank?” “I'm not the kind that visits the sins of the fathers on the children,” loftily stated the president. “Furthermore, a burnt child dreads the fire. I heard a railroad manager say that a trainman who had let an accident happen by his negligence was worth twice as much to the road as he was before. You don't say that I made a bad pick, do you?”