your tongue and advise others to do the same."

He stamped out. Landlord Files was left standing with an open mouth from
which no speech issued.

"Emperor, or only a plain king?" inquired the bagman.

"You being a stranger, I can let out some of my feelings," returned Mr.
Files. "Emperor, you say? He might just as well try to be one as to run
for the legislature."

The drummer showed interest.

"That's what getting to be a widderer can do to some men," confided the
landlord. He placed a smutty hand on the table and leaned down. "That
legislature thing ain't the half of it, mister! He hasn't blacked his
whiskers and bought that false mane simply so as to get into politics.
He's trying to court the prettiest girl in this town."

"Aha!" said the drummer. "The old story! Cleopatra, queen of Egypt, is
doing the job over again with the local Mark Antony!"

"Mebbe," admitted Mr. Files, his fishy gaze revealing that he had no
personal knowledge of the parties mentioned. "It's the old story, all
right. Widdereritis, and a bad run of it."

The bagman had a scarfpin in the shape of a horse shoe. His comment was
in line with his taste in adornment. "Files, old scout, if a colt is put
to harness so early that he can't get his natural fling in the fields,
he'll have it at the other end of his life, when he's let run to