heavy coils of shimmering gold hair. Her pawn, which was far from
unbecoming, was in keeping with those gifts with which nature had endowed
her. She carried her head high, and bestowed swift and evidently fatal
glances to right and left during her progress through the room. Mr.
Bixby's voice roused the storekeeper from this contemplation of the
beauty.

"That's Alvy Hopkins of Gosport and his daughter. Fine gal, hain't she?
Ever sense she come down here t'other day she's stirred up more turmoil
than any railroad bill I ever seed. She was most suffocated at the
governor's ball with fellers tryin' to get dances--some of 'em old
fellers, too. And you understand about Alvy?"

"What about him?"

"Alvy says he's a-goin' to be the next governor, or fail up." Mr. Bixby's
voice sank to a whisper, and he spoke into Mr. Wetherell's ear. "Alvy
says he has twenty-five thousand dollars to put in if necessary. I'll
introduce you to him, Will," he added meaningly. "Guess you can help him
some--you understand?"

"Mr. Bixby!" cried Mr. Wetherell, putting down his knife and fork.

"There!" said Mr. Bixby, reassuringly; "'twon't be no bother. I know him
as well as I do you--call each other by our given names. Guess I was the
first man he sent for last spring. He knows I go through all them river
towns. He says, 'Bije, you get 'em.' I understood."

William Wetherell began to realize the futility of trying to convince Mr.
Bixby of his innocence in political matters, and glanced at Jethro.