Bart started to return with his empty cart the way he had come, but about ten feet from the platform paused for a moment to take in the exceptionally flowery sentiment that was being enunciated by the speaker of the day.

Colonel Harrington, it seemed, was the self-appointed hero of the occasion.  The great man of the village was in his element—­the eyes and ears of all Pleasantville fixed upon him.

In rolling tones and with magnificent gestures he was paying a lofty tribute to the immortal Stars and Stripes waving just over his head, when, his eyes lowering, they focused straight in a fixed stare on Bart.

The colonel gave the young express agent an awful look, and in an instant Bart knew that the military man had been informed of the identity of the audacious cannoneer of the evening previous.

Like some orators, the colonel, once disturbed by an extraneous contemplation, lost his voice, cue and self-possession all in a second.

It seemed as if he could not take his eyes from the innocent and embarrassed author of his distraction.

He spluttered, the rounded sentence on his lips died down to measly insignificance, he stammered, stumbled, and sat down with a red face, his eyes darting rage at poor Bart.

Some of the boys in the crowd “caught on” to the situation, and giggled and made significant remarks, but the chairman on the platform covered the colonel’s confusion by announcing the national anthem, and Bart effected his escape.

“He’ll never forgive me, now,” decided Bart.  “The damage to the statue was bad enough, but breaking him up as my appearance did just now is the limit.  I hope Mr. Leslie doesn’t hear of my unfortunate escapade, and I hope the colonel doesn’t undertake to hurt my chances.  He’s an irrational firebrand when he takes a dislike to anybody, and Mrs. Harrington is worse.”

Bart had a foundation for this double criticism.  The colonel was a pompous, self-important individual, intensely selfish and domineering, and his wife a thoughtless devotee of fashion and society.

Mrs. Stirling did some very fine fancy work, and a few months previous to the opening of this tale the magnate’s wife had asked as a favor that she embroider some handkerchiefs as a wedding present for a relative.

She never visited the Stirling house but she left some sting or sneer of affected superiority behind her, and when the work was done took it home, and the next day sent a note complaining that the handkerchiefs were spoiled, inclosing about one-fifth the usual compensation for such labor.  But she did not return the handkerchiefs.

Mrs. Stirling later learned that their recipient had expressed herself perfectly delighted with the delicate, beautiful gift, but, being a true lady, Bart’s mother said nothing about the matter to those who would have been glad to spread a little gossip unfavorable to the dowdy society queen of Pleasantville.