“This ain’t a liter’ry meetin’, Mr. Bolum.  The floor is Mr. Thomas’s, I believe,” said Henry with dignity.

“But I didn’t catch the name of the station you said we was to imagine.”

“I said Pleasantville,” cried Henry angrily.

“I apologize,” returned Isaac.  “I thought you said Meadowville, and never havin’ been there, I didn’t see how I could imagine the station.”

“It seems to me, Isaac Bolum,” retorted Henry with dignified asperity, “that with your imagination you could conjure up a whole railroad system, includin’ the freight-yard.  But Mr. Thomas has the floor.”

“See here, Henery Holmes,” cried Isaac, “it’s all right for us old folks, but there’s the children.  How can they imagine Pleasantville station when some of ’em ain’t yet seen a train?”

This routed even Henry Holmes.  At the store he would never have given in, but he was not accustomed to hearing so loud a murmur of approval greet the opposition.  He realized that he had been placed in a false position by the importunities of Mr. Thomas, and to him he now left the brunt of the trouble by stepping out of the illumined circle and losing himself in the company.

The fire-swept zone had no terrors for Perry.  With one hand thrust between the first and second buttons of his coat, and the other raised in that gesture with which the orator stills the sea of discontent, he stepped forward, and turning slowly about, brought his eyes to bear on the contumacious Bolum.  He indicated the target.  Every optic gun in the room was levelled at it.  The upraised hand, the potent silence, the solemn gaze of a hundred eyes was too much for the old man to bear.  Slowly he swung back on two legs of his chair, caught the rungs again with the projecting soles, turned his eyes to the ceiling, closed them, and set himself to imagining the station at Pleasantville.  The rout was complete.

Perry wheeled and faced me.  The hand was lowered slowly; four fingers disappeared and one long one, one quivering one, remained, a whip with which to chastise the prisoner at the bar.

“Mark Hope,” he began, in a deep, rich, resonant voice, “we welcome you home.  We have come down from the valley, fourteen mile through the blazin’ noonday sun, fourteen mile over wind-swept roads, that you, when agin you step on the soil of our beloved county, may step into lovin’ hands, outstretched to meet you and bid you welcome.  Welcome home—­thrice welcome—­agin I say, welcome!”

[Illustration:  “Welcome home—­thrice welcome!”]

Both of the orator’s hands swung upward and outward, and he looked intently at the ceiling.  He seemed prepared to catch me as I leaped from a second-story window.  The pause as he stood there braced to receive the body of the returning soldier as it hurtled at him, gave Isaac Bolum an opportunity to be magnanimous.  He clapped his hands and cheered.  In an instant his shrill cry was drowned