and damnable portraits of the Richardses, and Pinkerton the banker, and
Cox, and the foreman, and Reverend Burgess, and the postmaster--and even
of Jack Halliday, who was the loafing, good-natured, no-account,
irreverent fisherman, hunter, boys' friend, stray-dogs' friend, typical
"Sam Lawson" of the town. The little mean, smirking, oily Pinkerton
showed the sack to all comers, and rubbed his sleek palms together
pleasantly, and enlarged upon the town's fine old reputation for honesty
and upon this wonderful endorsement of it, and hoped and believed that
the example would now spread far and wide over the American world, and be
epoch-making in the matter of moral regeneration. And so on, and so on.

By the end of a week things had quieted down again; the wild intoxication
of pride and joy had sobered to a soft, sweet, silent delight--a sort of
deep, nameless, unutterable content. All faces bore a look of peaceful,
holy happiness.

Then a change came. It was a gradual change; so gradual that its
beginnings were hardly noticed; maybe were not noticed at all, except by
Jack Halliday, who always noticed everything; and always made fun of it,
too, no matter what it was. He began to throw out chaffing remarks about
people not looking quite so happy as they did a day or two ago; and next
he claimed that the new aspect was deepening to positive sadness; next,
that it was taking on a sick look; and finally he said that everybody was
become so moody, thoughtful, and absent-minded that he could rob the
meanest man in town of a cent out of the bottom of his breeches pocket
and not disturb his reverie.

At this stage--or at about this stage--a saying like this was dropped at
bedtime--with a sigh, usually--by the head of each of the nineteen
principal households: