the table on which stood his big, bedewed, earthen jars, that you
became aware of the tinkle of ice and a cold, liquid murmur--what
mortal could deny the inward call and pass without stopping to buy?

There fell a night in September when Bertha beheld her lover
glorious. She had been warned that he was to officiate in the great
opening function of the campaign; and she stood on the corner for an
hour before the head of the procession appeared. On they
came--Pietro's party, three thousand strong; brass bands, fireworks,
red fire, tumultuous citizens, political clubs, local potentates in
open carriages, policemen, boys, dogs, bicycles--the procession doing
all the cheering for itself, the crowds of spectators only feebly
responding to this enthusiasm, as is our national custom. At the end
of it all marched a plentiful crew of tatterdemalions, a few bleared
white men, and the rest negroes. They bore aloft a crazy transparency,
exhibiting the legend:

"FRANK PIXLEY'S HARD-MONEY LEAGUE.

WE STAND FOR OUR PRINCIPALS.

WE ARE SOLLID!

NO FOOLING THE PEOPLE GOES!

WE VOTE AS ONE MAN FOR

TAYLOR P. SINGLETON!"

Bertha's eyes had not rested upon Toby where they innocently sought