“Why,” said Kendall, “that’s Sam Sleeny, a carpenter in Dean Street.  He orter be in better business.”

“Yes, I remember,” said Farnham; “he is a Reformer.  Put him with the others.”

As they were tying his hands, Sam turned to Farnham and said, in a manner which was made dignified by its slow, energetic malice, “You’ve beat me to-night, but I will get even with you yet—­as sure as there’s a God.”

“That’s reasonably sure,” said Farnham; “but in the meanwhile, we’ll put you where you can cool off a little.”

The street was now cleared; the last fugitives were out of sight.  Farnham returned to his garden, and then divided his men into squads for patrolling the neighborhood.  They waited for half an hour, and, finding all was still quiet, then made arrangements for passing the night.  Farnham made Temple go into the house with him, and asked Budsey to bring some sherry.  “It is not so good as your Santa Rita,” he said; “but the exercise in the night air will give it a relish.”

When the wine came, the men filled and drank, in sober American fashion, without words; but in the heart of each there was the thought of eternal friendship, founded upon brave and loyal service.

“Budsey,” said Farnham, “give all the men a glass of this wine.”

“Not this, sir?” said Budsey, aghast.

“I said this,” replied Farnham.  “Perhaps they won’t enjoy it, but I shall enjoy giving it to them.”

Farnham and Temple were eating some bread and cheese and talking over the evening, when Budsey came back with something which approached a smile upon his grave countenance.

“Did they like it?” asked Farnham.

“Half of ’em said they was temperance and wouldn’t ’ave any.  Some of the rest said—­you will excuse me, sir—­as it was d——­ poor cider,” and Budsey went out of the room with a suspicious convulsion of the back.

“I’ll go on that,” said Mr. Temple.  “Goodnight.  I think we will have good news in the morning.  There will be an attack made on those men at Riverley to-morrow which will melt them like an iceberg in Tartarus.”  Mr. Temple was not classical, and, of course, did not say Tartarus.

Farnham was left alone.  The reaction from the excitement of the last few hours was settling upon him.  The glow of the fight and his success in it were dying away.  Midnight was near, and a deep silence was falling upon the city.  There was no sound of bells, of steam-whistles, or of rushing trains.  The breeze could be heard in the quiet, stirring the young, soft leaves.  Farnham felt sore, beaten, discomfited.  He smiled a little bitterly to himself when he considered that the cause of his feeling of discouragement was that Alice Belding had spoken to him with coldness and shyness when she opened her door.  He could not help saying to himself, “I deserved a kinder greeting than she gave me.  She evidently wished me to understand that I am not to be permitted any further intimacy.  I have forfeited that by presuming to love her.  But how lovely she is!  When she took her mother in her arms, I thought of all the Greek heroines I ever read about.  Still, ’if she be not fair for me’—­if I am not to be either lover or friend—­this is no place for me.”