behind. There was jumping broad
and high, and a 100-yard dash and hurdling
and throwing the hammer, which the
Blight said were not interesting--they
were too much like college sports--and she
wanted to see the base-ball game and the
tournament. And yet Marston was in
them all--dogged and resistless--his teeth
set and his eyes anywhere but lifted toward
the Blight, who secretly proud, as I believed,
but openly defiant, mentioned not
his name even when he lost, which was
twice only.

``Pretty good, isn't he?'' I said.

``Who?'' she said indifferently.

``Oh, nobody,'' I said, turning to smile,
but not turning quickly enough.

``What's the matter with you?'' asked
the Blight sharply.

``Nothing, nothing at all,'' I said, and
straightway the Blight thought she wanted
to go home. The thunder of the Declaration
was still rumbling in the poplar grove.

``That's the Hon. Sam Budd,'' I said.