“You see?” he said.

“Know that little man, Gibbs, don’t ye?” inquired Mr. Hartington.

“Airley Gibbs, hain’t it?  Runs a livery business daown to Rutgers, on Lovejoy’s railroad,” replied Mr. Bixby, promptly.  “I know him.  Knew old man Gibbs well’s I do you.  Mean cuss.”

“This Airley’s smart—­wahn’t quite smart enough, though.  His bright idea come a little mite late.  Hunted up old Christy, got the key to his law office right here in the Duncan Block, went up through the skylight, clumb down to the roof of Randall’s store next door, shinned up the lightnin’ rod on t’other side, and stuck his head plump into the Opery House window.”

“I want to know!” ejaculated Mr. Bixby.

“Somethin’ terrible pathetic was goin’ on on the stage,” resumed Mr. Hartington, “the folks didn’t see him at first,—­they was all cryin’ and everythin’ was still, but Airley wahn’t affected.  As quick as he got his breath he hollered right out loud’s he could:  ’The Truro Bill’s up in the House, boys.  We’re skun if you don’t git thar quick.’  Then they tell me’ the lightnin’ rod give way; anyhow, he came down on Randall’s gravel roof considerable hard, I take it.”

Mr. Hartington, apparently, had an aggravating way of falling into mournful revery and of forgetting his subject.  Mr. Bixby was forced to jog him again.

“Yes, they did,” he said, “they did.  They come out like the theatre was afire.  There was some delay in gettin’ to the street, but not much—­not much.  All the Republican Clubs in the state couldn’t have held ’em then, and the profanity they used wahn’t especially edifyin’.”

“Peleg’s a deacon—­you understand,” said Mr. Bixby.  “Say, Peleg, where was Al Lovejoy?”

“Lovejoy come along with the first of ’em.  Must have hurried some—­they tell me he was settin’ way down in front alongside of Alvy Hopkins’s gal, and when Airley hollered out she screeched and clutched on to Al, and Al said somethin’ he hadn’t ought to and tore off one of them pink gew-gaws she was covered with.  He was the maddest man I ever see.  Some of the club was crowded inside, behind the seats, standin’ up to see the show.  Al was so anxious to git through he hit Si Dudley in the mouth—­injured him some, I guess.  Pity, wahn’t it?”

“Si hain’t in politics, you understand,” said Mr. Bixby.  “Callate Si paid to git in there, didn’t he, Peleg?”

“Callate he did,” assented Senator Hartington.

A long and painful pause followed.  There seemed, indeed, nothing more to be said.  The sound of applause floated out of the Opera House doors, around which the remaining loiterers were clustered.

“Goin’ in, be you, Peleg?” inquired Mr. Bixby.

Mr. Hartington shook his head.

“Will and me had a notion to see somethin’ of the show,” said Mr. Bixby, almost apologetically.  “I kep’ my ticket.”

“Well,” said Mr. Hartington, reflectively, “I guess you’ll find some of the show left.  That hain’t b’en hurt much, so far as I can ascertain.”