“Look here!  I calculated all these risks after our last meeting.  While you boys were just fussin’ round, doin’ nothing, I wrote to the express company that a box of women’s damaged duds had arrived here, while we were looking for our statue; that you chaps were so riled at bein’ sold by them that you dumped the whole blamed thing in the creek.  But I added, if they’d let me know what the damage was, I’d send ’em a draft to cover it.  After a spell of waitin’ they said they’d call it square for two hundred dollars, considering our disappointment.  And I sent the draft.  That’s spurred them up to get over our statue, I reckon.  And, now that it’s coming, it will set us right with the boys.”

“And she,” said Clinton Grey again, pointing to the locked chest, “belongs to us?”

“Until we can find some lady guest that will take her with the rooms,” returned the president, a little cynically.

But the arrival of the real statue and its erection in the hotel vestibule created a new sensation.  The members of the Excelsior Company were loud in its praises except the executive committee, whose coolness was looked upon by the others as an affectation of superiority.  It awakened the criticism and jealousy of the nearest town.

“We hear,” said the “Red Dog Advertiser,” “that the long-promised statue has been put up in that high-toned Hash Dispensary they call a hotel at Excelsior.  It represents an emaciated squaw in a scanty blanket gathering roots, and carrying a bit of thorn-bush kindlings behind her.  The high-toned, close corporation of Excelsior may consider this a fair allegory of California; we should say it looks mighty like a prophetic forecast of a hard winter on Sycamore Creek and scarcity of provisions.  However, it isn’t our funeral, though it’s rather depressing to the casual visitor on his way to dinner.  For a long time this work of art was missing and supposed to be lost, but by being sternly and persistently rejected at every express office on the route, it was at last taken in at Excelsior.”

There was some criticism nearer home.

“What do you think of it, Miss Marsh?” said the president politely to that active young secretary, as he stood before it in the hall.  The young woman adjusted her eye-glasses over her aquiline nose.

“As an idea or a woman, sir?”

“As a woman, madam,” said the president, letting his brown eyes slip for a moment from Miss Marsh’s corn-colored crest over her straight but scant figure down to her smart slippers.

“Well, sir, she could wear your boots, and there isn’t a corset in Sacramento would go round her.”

“Thank you!” he returned gravely, and moved away.  For a moment a wild idea of securing possession of the figure some dark night, and, in company with his fellow-conspirators, of trying those beautiful clothes upon her, passed through his mind, but he dismissed it.  And then occurred a strange incident, which startled even his cool, American sanity.