“I should like to hear them,” said Miss Clara, laughing, “and I should particularly like to hear your favorite, the one which ends with the Amen—­the very large A—­men.”

“Seventeen hands,” declared Mr. Harum.  “Must you be goin’?  Wa’al, glad to have seen ye.  Polly’s hopin’ you’ll come an’ see her putty soon.”

“I will,” she promised.  “Give her my love, and tell her so, please.”

They drove away and David sauntered in, went behind the desks, and perched himself up on a stool near the teller’s counter as he often did when in the office, and John was not particularly engaged.

“Got you roped in, have they?” he said, using his hat as a fan.  “Scat my ——! but ain’t this a ring-tail squealer?”

“It is very hot,” responded John.

“Miss Claricy says you’re goin’ to sing fer ’em up to their house to-night.”

“Yes,” said John, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, as he pinned a paper strap around a pile of bills and began to count out another.

“Don’t feel very fierce for it, I guess, do ye?” said David, looking shrewdly at him.

“Not very,” said John, with a short laugh.

“Feel a little skittish ’bout it, eh?” suggested Mr. Harum.  “Don’t see why ye should—­anybody that c’n put up a tune the way you kin.”

“It’s rather different,” observed the younger man, “singing for you and Mrs. Bixbee and standing up before a lot of strange people.”

“H-m, h-m,” said David with a nod; “diff’rence ‘tween joggin’ along on the road an’ drivin’ a fust heat on the track; in one case the’ ain’t nothin’ up, an’ ye don’t care whether you git there a little more previously or a little less; an’ in the other the’s the crowd, an’ the judges, an’ the stake, an’ your record, an’ mebbe the pool box into the barg’in, that’s all got to be considered.  Feller don’t mind it so much after he gits fairly off, but thinkin’ on’t beforehand ’s fidgity bus’nis.”

“You have illustrated it exactly,” said John, laughing, and much amused at David’s very characteristic, as well as accurate, illustration.

* * * * *

“My!” exclaimed Aunt Polly, when John came into the sitting room after dinner dressed to go out.  “My, don’t he look nice?  I never see you in them clo’es.  Come here a minute,” and she picked a thread off his sleeve and took the opportunity to turn him round for the purpose of giving him a thorough inspection.

“That wa’n’t what you said when you see me in my gold-plated harniss,” remarked David, with a grin.  “You didn’t say nothin’ putty to me.”

“Humph!  I guess the’s some diff’rence,” observed Mrs. Bixbee with scorn, and her brother laughed.

“How was you cal’latin’ to git there?” he asked, looking at our friend’s evening shoes.

“I thought at first I would walk,” was the reply, “but I rather think I will stop at Robinson’s and get him to send me over.”