Then he became conscious of the silent boy at his side, stepping noiselessly with bare feet.

“Life is funny,” said Dave.

“Yes, sir,” said Wilbur.

“Of course there’s a catch in it somewhere.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That old girl back there, that old maid, she’ll have to small-town it all her life.  I feel sorry for her, I do.”

“Yes, sir.”

But the sorrowing father now began to whistle cheerfully.  His grief had not overborne him.  A man who would call Judge Penniman Old Flapdoodle and question the worth of Matthew Arnold’s acquaintance was not to be long downcast at the plight of one woman.  And he had done what man could for her.

They came to River Street, the street of shops, deserted and sleeping back of drawn curtains.  Only the shop of Solly Gumble seemed to be open for trade.  This was but seeming, however, for another establishment near by, though sealed and curtained as to front, suffered its rear portal to yawn most hospitably.  This was the place of business of Herman Vielhaber, and its street sign concisely said, “Lager Bier Saloon.”

Dave Cowan turned into the alley just beyond Solly Gumble’s, then up another alley that led back of the closed shops, and so came to the back door of this refectory.  It stood open, and from the cool and shadowy interior came a sourish smell of malt liquors and the hum of voices.  They entered and were in Herman Vielhaber’s pleasant back room, with sanded floor and a few round tables, at which sat half a dozen men consuming beer from stone mugs or the pale wine of Herman’s country from tall glasses.

Herman was a law-abiding citizen.  Out of deference to a sacred and long-established American custom he sealed the front of his saloon on the Sabbath; out of deference to another American custom, equally long established, equally sacred, he received his Sabbath clientele at the rear—­except for a brief morning interval when he and Minna, his wife, attended service at the Lutheran church.  Herman’s perhaps not too subtle mind had never solved this problem of American morals—­why his beverages should be seemly to drink on all days of the week, yet on one of them seemly but if taken behind shut doors and shielding curtains.  But he adhered conscientiously to the American rule.  His Lutheran pastor had once, in an effort to clear up the puzzle, explained to him that the Continental Sunday would never do at all in this land of his choice; but it left Herman still muddled, because fixed unalterably in his mind was a conviction that the Continental Sunday was the best of all Sundays.  Nor was there anything the least clandestine in this backdoor trade of Herman’s on the Sabbath.  One had but to know the path to his door, and at this moment Newbern’s mayor, old Doctor Purdy, sat at one of Herman’s tables and sipped from a stone mug of beer and played a game of pinochle with stout, red-bearded Herman himself, overlooked by Minna, who had brought them their drink.