"Lan' name, who dat!" he exclaimed aloud. "Who dat in dem pan-jingeries?
He jine' de circus?" His hands fell upon his knees, and he got to his feet
pneumatically, shaking his head with foreboding. "Honey, honey, hit' baid
luck, baid luck sing 'fo' breakfus. Trouble 'fo' de day be done. Trouble,
honey, gre't trouble. Baid luck, baid luck!"

Along the Square the passing of the editor in his cool equipment evoked
some gasps of astonishment; and Mr. Tibbs and his sister rushed from the
postoffice to stare after him.

"He looks just beautiful, Solomon," said Miss Tibbs.

"But what's the name for them kind of clothes?" inquired her brother.
"'Seems to me there's a special way of callin' 'em. 'Seems as if I see a
picture of 'em, somewheres. Wasn't it on the cover of that there long-
tennis box we bought and put in the window, and the country people thought
it was a seining outfit?"

"It was a game, the catalogue said," observed Miss Selina. "Wasn't it?"

"It was a mighty pore investment," the postmaster answered.

As Harkless approached the hotel, a decrepit old man, in a vast straw hat
and a linen duster much too large for him, came haltingly forward to meet
him. He was Widow-Woman Wimby's husband. And, as did every one else, he
spoke of his wife by the name of her former martial companion.

"Be'n a-lookin' fer you, Mr. Harkless," he said in a shaking spindle of a
voice, as plaintive as his pale little eyes. "Mother Wimby, she sent some