Anderson's curiosity grew. He went closer. Amidon and Ray, the
postmaster, on his way home to his dinner, also joined him, and the
little barber, smelling strongly of scented soap and witch-hazel.
They stood listening interestedly.

"Most too many against one," remarked the postmaster.

"He don't look scared," said Amidon. "He's Southern, and he's got
grit. He's backed up there like the whole Confederacy."

A kindly look overspread the sleek, conceited face of the man. His
forebears were from Alabama. His father had been a small white
slave-owner who had drifted North, in a state of petty ruin after the
war, and there Amidon, who had been a child at the time, had grown up
and married the thrifty woman who supported him. The wrangle
increased, the boys danced more energetically, the small fists of the
boy at bay were on closer guard.

"Hi, there!" sung out Amidon. "Look at here; there's too many of ye.
Look out ye don't git into no mischief, now."

"Hullo, boys! what's the trouble?" shouted the postmaster, in a voice
of authority. He was used to running these same boys out of his
office when they became too boisterous during the distribution of the
mails, making precipitate dashes from the inner sanctum of the United
States government. They were accustomed to the sound of his important
shout, and a few eyes rolled over shoulder at him. But they soon
plunged again into their little whirlpool of excitement, for they
were quick-witted and not slow to reason that they were now on the
king's highway where they had as much right as the postmaster, and