At the next interchange of devoirs between the Governor and General
Deffenbaugh on Lee Avenue, His Excellency, with a comfortable air of
self-satisfaction, spoke of the appointment that had been tendered
to Billy.

The General whistled.

"That's a plum for Billy," he shouted. "Who'd have thought that
Billy--but, confound it, it's been in him all the time. It's a boost
for Elmville. It'll send real estate up. It's an honour to our
state. It's a compliment to the South. We've all been blind about
Billy. When does he leave? We must have a reception. Great Gatlings!
that job's eight thousand a year! There's been a car-load of
lead-pencils worn to stubs figuring on those appointments. Think of
it! Our little, wood-sawing, mealy-mouthed Billy! Angel unawares
doesn't begin to express it. Elmville is disgraced forever until she
lines up in a hurry for ratification and apology."

The venerable Moloch smiled fatuously. He carried the fire with
which to consume all these tributes to Billy, the smoke of which
would ascend as an incense to himself.

"William," said the Governor, with modest pride, "has declined the
appointment. He refuses to leave me in my old age. He is a good
son."

The General swung round, and laid a large forefinger upon the bosom
of his friend. Much of the General's success had been due to his
dexterity in establishing swift lines of communication between cause
and effect.