“Say, Bill, isn’t that little feller’s shirt out o’ jail?”

Tiffles made a personal application of this remark.  It was his constant misfortune to suffer rents in portions of his garments where their existence was least likely to be discovered by himself.  As he could not publicly verify the suggestion of the impertinent small boy, he buttoned his coat tightly about him.

How their identity with the panorama of Africa had been established, was a mystery.  Small boys divine secrets by instinct, as birds find food and water.

The two taverns were the National House and the United States Hotel.  Although the signs were large and clean, the taverns were small and dirty.  There was no choice between them, except in the fact that the United States Hotel was directly opposite Washington Hall.  Therefore the adherents of the panorama cast their fortunes with that place of entertainment for man and beast—­particularly beast.

Mr. Thomas Pigworth, the landlord, was seated on the stoop of his hostelry, discoursing of national politics to a small group of his fellow citizens, who were performing acrobatic feats with chairs in a circle about him.  Pigworth was a justice of the peace, and was always dressed in his best clothes, so as to perform his judicial functions at a moments notice, with dignity and ease.  He was tall, thin, baldheaded.  T.J.  Childon, landlord of the “National,” said hard things, as in duty bound, of his rival.  Among others, that he had kept himself lean by running so hard for office for the last ten years.  To which slander Pigworth retorted, that Childon was fat (which was true—­a fine, plump figure was Childon’s) only because he ate everything in his house, and left nothing for his customers.

The three newcomers mounted the rotten wooden steps to the stoop.  Mr. Pigworth left his group of auditors, came forward, and received them with the affability of a retired statesman.

“The landlord?” asked Tiffles.

“I keep the hotel,” said Pigworth, with a smile which intimated that he kept it for amusement rather than profit.

“Room and board for three of us?” asked Tiffles.

“Certainly,” said Pigworth, with the air of a man who was doing them a favor.  “Ef you want only one apartment, I can give you the one occupied last week by the Hon. Mr. Podhammer.  You have heard of him?”

“Of course,” responded Tiffles, to cut short the conversation.

“He spoke in Washington Hall, there, on the Cons’tution.  He is smart on some things, but THE CONS’TUTION he doesn’t understand—­not a word of it.  I told him so.”

Tiffles was about to ask why, if the Hon. Mr. Podhammer didn’t understand a word of the Constitution, he had the audacity to lecture on it; when he remembered that it was no uncommon thing for lecturers to talk of what they don’t understand—­himself of Africa, for instance.

“Be good enough to show us the room,” said he.