Last of all came the tooting calliope, followed by swarms of boys as it
executed, "Wait till the clouds roll by, Jennie" with infinite dash and
gusto.
When it was gone, Miss Sherwood's intent gaze relaxed--she had been
looking on as eagerly as any child,--and she turned to speak to Harkless
and discovered that he was no longer in the room; instead, she found
Minnie and Mr. Willetts, whom he had summoned from another window.
"He was called away," explained Lige. "He thought he'd be back before the
parade was over, and said you were enjoying it so much he didn't want to
speak to you."
"Called away?" she said, inquiringly.
Minnie laughed. "Oh, everybody sends for Mr. Harkless."
"It was a farmer, name of Bowlder," added Mr. Willetts. "His son Hartley's
drinking again, and there ain't any one but Harkless can do anything with
him. You let him tackle a sick man to nurse, or a tipsy one to handle, and
I tell you," Mr. Willetts went on with enthusiasm, "he is at home. It
beats me,--and lots of people don't think college does a man any good!
Why, the way he cured old Fis----"
"See!" cried Minnie, loudly, pointing out of the window. "Look down
there. Something's happened."
There was a swirl in the crowd below. Men were running around a corner of
the court-house, and the women and children were harking after. They went
so fast, and there were so many of them, that immediately that whole
portion of the yard became a pushing, tugging, pulling, squirming jam of
people.
"It's on the other side," said Lige. "We can see from the hall window.
Come quick, before these other folks fill it up."
They followed him across the building, and looked down on an agitated
swarm of faces. Five men were standing on the entrance steps to the door
below, and the crowd was thickly massed beyond, leaving a little
semicircle clear about the steps. Those behind struggled to get closer,
and leaped in the air to catch a glimpse of what was going on. Harkless
stood alone on the top step, his hand resting on the shoulder of the pale
and contrite and sobered Hartley. In the clear space, Jim Bardlock was
standing with sheepishly hanging head, and between him and Harkless were
the two gamblers of the walnut shells. The journalist held in his hand the
implements of their profession.
"Give it all up," he was saying in his steady voice. "You've taken eighty-
six dollars from this boy. Hand it over."