Even more effective, perhaps, were Mr. Smith's secret benefactions,
the kind of giving done by stealth of which not a soul in town knew
anything, often, for a week after it was done. It was in this way
that Mr. Smith put the new font in Dean Drone's church, and handed
over a hundred dollars to Judge Pepperleigh for the unrestrained use
of the Conservative party.

So it came about that, little by little, the antagonism had died
down. Smith's Hotel became an accepted institution in Mariposa. Even
the temperance people were proud of Mr. Smith as a sort of character
who added distinction to the town. There were moments, in the earlier
quiet of the morning, when Dean Drone would go so far as to step in
to the "rotunda" and collect a subscription. As for the Salvation
Army, they ran in and out all the time unreproved.

On only one point difficulty still remained. That was the closing of
the bar. Mr. Smith could never bring his mind to it,--not as a matter
of profit, but as a point of honour. It was too much for him to feel
that Judge Pepperleigh might be out on the sidewalk thirsty at
midnight, that the night hands of the Times-Herald on Wednesday might
be compelled to go home dry. On this point Mr. Smith's moral code was
simplicity itself,--do what is right and take the consequences. So
the bar stayed open.

Every town, I suppose, has its meaner spirits. In every genial bosom
some snake is warmed,--or, as Mr. Smith put it to Golgotha
Gingham--"there are some fellers even in this town skunks enough to
inform."

At first the Mariposa court quashed all indictments. The presiding