“Company say anything?”

“Not a word.”

“You telegraphed yesterday?”

Yes, and the day before, too.”

“No answer?”

“None-confound them!”

Then there was a long pause.  Finally both spoke at once: 

“I’ve got it!”

“I’ve got it!”

“What’s yours?” said Harry.

“Give the boys thirty-day orders on the Company for the back pay.”

“That’s it-that’s my own idea to a dot.  But then—­but then——­”

“Yes, I know,” said the Colonel; “I know they can’t wait for the orders to go to New York and be cashed, but what’s the reason they can’t get them discounted in Hawkeye?”

“Of course they can.  That solves the difficulty.  Everybody knows the appropriation’s been made and the Company’s perfectly good.”

So the orders were given and the men appeased, though they grumbled a little at first.  The orders went well enough for groceries and such things at a fair discount, and the work danced along gaily for a time.  Two or three purchasers put up frame houses at the Landing and moved in, and of course a far-sighted but easy-going journeyman printer wandered along and started the “Napoleon Weekly Telegraph and Literary Repository”—­a paper with a Latin motto from the Unabridged dictionary, and plenty of “fat” conversational tales and double-leaded poetry—­all for two dollars a year, strictly in advance.  Of course the merchants forwarded the orders at once to New York—­and never heard of them again.

At the end of some weeks Harry’s orders were a drug in the market—­nobody would take them at any discount whatever.  The second month closed with a riot.—­Sellers was absent at the time, and Harry began an active absence himself with the mob at his heels.  But being on horseback, he had the advantage.  He did not tarry in Hawkeye, but went on, thus missing several appointments with creditors.  He was far on his flight eastward, and well out of danger when the next morning dawned.  He telegraphed the Colonel to go down and quiet the laborers—­he was bound east for money —­everything would be right in a week—­tell the men so—­tell them to rely on him and not be afraid.

Sellers found the mob quiet enough when he reached the Landing.  They had gutted the Navigation office, then piled the beautiful engraved stock-books and things in the middle of the floor and enjoyed the bonfire while it lasted.  They had a liking for the Colonel, but still they had some idea of hanging him, as a sort of make-shift that might answer, after a fashion, in place of more satisfactory game.