He sounded about Clinton for some time for a suitable anchorage on which to materialize the plans and specifications of his mansion, but he did not drive a stake, because Clinton was very much inferior to his “class” ideal; it had no electric light, and no water system.  So he migrated south to Ashcroft, and there he pre-empted a large lot and made arrangements for the foundation of his castle.  Out of the ground in a short period arose one of the most up-to-date bungalows.  While the building was in course of construction Hard Times Hance, who had repudiated this headline, moved about in his dress suit, stiff hat, silk gloves, and a cane, and gave such orders to the contractor as he saw fit.  He was looked upon as the most remarkable freak that had ever invaded the dry belt.  And he sprang into society spontaneously.  The people clamored for him.  Progressive socials were arranged in his honor at all the leading social centres in their eagerness to cultivate his society.  Some had faint recollections of having seen him at times, others claimed to have heard of him at his hermitage, but they all pretended to have known him personally and thoroughly, and many even suspected that he possessed more, intrinsically, than he had revealed superficially.  He was the lion of the hour, and he did not forget to hand around the coin in his efforts to retain the position which he had secured.

When his mansion was turned over by the contractor, and had been accepted by the architect, he issued invitations to one of the most magnificent social functions which had ever erupted at Ashcroft.  Those who were invited were flattered, and those who were not called were grossly insulted and wondered what disqualified them.  They danced the “tango,” and the “bango,” and the “flango,” and all the “light fantastics” until their feet went on strike, and their ear drums had become phonographic and reproduced the music with a perpetual motion which could not be stopped.  Every lady was eager to reveal the dancing secrets to mine host, and before the evening was over he could waltz, tango, and do many of the up-to-date ridiculous “stunts.”

And then they dined on a French dinner.  It was cooked in French style, and they ate it in French; and then they drank French toasts to the King of England, the Governor-General of Canada, Sir Wilfrid Laurier, and the gentlemen drank to the ladies in general all over the world.  Then the ladies proposed a French toast to “mine host.”  Not one of them could speak French, although a few of them could repeat, parrot-like, the words “Parlez-vous Francais?” but they only knew it as a “foreign phrase” which sounded extremely cultured.

And the menu was as follows:  “Canape of Anchovies,” “Celery en Branch,” “Potage a la Reine,” “Consomme au Celeri,” “Calves’ Sweetbreads a la Rothschilds,” “French Lamb Chops a la Nelson,” “Cafe noir,” etc., etc.

In the midst of all this foreign celestialism mine host forgot the creek, the trail, the dug-out, the beans and bacon, and the kin-i-kin-nick pipe; and he prided himself on his rapid and agreeable transition into swift channels of life.  He was taking to society as a duck takes to water.