above Mr. Smith's head as he stands. What is on it? "JOS. SMITH,
PROP." Nothing more, and yet the thing was a flash of genius. Other
men who had had the hotel before Mr. Smith had called it by such
feeble names as the Royal Hotel and the Queen's and the Alexandria.
Every one of them failed. When Mr. Smith took over the hotel he
simply put up the sign with "JOS. SMITH, PROP.," and then stood
underneath in the sunshine as a living proof that a man who weighs
nearly three hundred pounds is the natural king of the hotel
business.

But on this particular afternoon, in spite of the sunshine and deep
peace, there was something as near to profound concern and anxiety as
the features of Mr. Smith were ever known to express.

The moment was indeed an anxious one. Mr. Smith was awaiting a
telegram from his legal adviser who had that day journeyed to the
county town to represent the proprietor's interest before the
assembled License Commissioners. If you know anything of the hotel
business at all, you will understand that as beside the decisions of
the License Commissioners of Missinaba County, the opinions of the
Lords of the Privy Council are mere trifles.

The matter in question was very grave. The Mariposa Court had just
fined Mr. Smith for the second time for selling liquors after hours.
The Commissioners, therefore, were entitled to cancel the license.

Mr. Smith knew his fault and acknowledged it. He had broken the law.
How he had come to do so, it passed his imagination to recall. Crime
always seems impossible in retrospect. By what sheer madness of the
moment could he have shut up the bar on the night in question, and