minutes, seconds and quarter seconds. Just to look at Josh Smith's
watch brought at least ten men to the bar every evening.

Every morning Mr. Smith was shaved by Jefferson Thorpe, across the
way. All that art could do, all that Florida water could effect, was
lavished on his person.

Mr. Smith became a local character. Mariposa was at his feet. All the
reputable business-men drank at Mr. Smith's bar, and in the little
parlour behind it you might find at any time a group of the brightest
intellects in the town.

Not but what there was opposition at first. The clergy, for example,
who accepted the Mariposa House and the Continental as a necessary
and useful evil, looked askance at the blazing lights and the surging
crowd of Mr. Smith's saloon. They preached against him. When the Rev.
Dean Drone led off with a sermon on the text "Lord be merciful even
unto this publican Matthew Six," it was generally understood as an
invitation to strike Mr. Smith dead. In the same way the sermon at
the Presbyterian church the week after was on the text "Lo what now
doeth Abiram in the land of Melchisideck Kings Eight and Nine?" and it
was perfectly plain that what was meant was, "Lo, what is Josh Smith
doing in Mariposa?"

But this opposition had been countered by a wide and sagacious
philanthropy. I think Mr. Smith first got the idea of that on the
night when the steam merry-go-round came to Mariposa. Just below the
hostelry, on an empty lot, it whirled and whistled, steaming forth
its tunes on the summer evening while the children crowded round it
in hundreds. Down the street strolled Mr. Smith, wearing a soft