“You will kindly register that and give me a receipt, Mr. Prescott,” he said.

Ephraim turned from his contemplation of the features of the martyred President, and on his face was something of the look it might have worn when he confronted his enemies over the log-works at Five Forks.  No, for there was a vast contempt in his gaze now, and he had had no contempt for the Southerners, and would have shaken hands with any of them the moment the battle was over.  Mr. Worthington, in spite of himself, recoiled a little before that look, fearing, perhaps, physical violence.

“I hain’t a-goin’ to hurt you, Mr. Worthington,” Ephraim said, “but I am a-goin’ to ask you to git out in front, and mighty quick.  If you hev any business with the postmaster, there’s the window,” and Ephraim pointed to it with his twisted finger.  “I don’t allow nobody but my friends here, Mr. Worthington, and people I respect.”

Mr. Worthington looked—­well, eye-witnesses give various versions as to how he looked.  All agree that his lip trembled; some say his eyes watered:  at any rate, he quailed, stood a moment undecided, and then swung on his heel and walked to the partition door.  At this safe distance he turned.

“Mr. Prescott,” he said, his voice quivering with passion and perhaps another emotion, “I will make it my duty to report to the postmaster-general the manner in which this office is run.  Instead of attending to your business, you make the place a resort for loafers and idlers.  Good morning, sir.”

Ten minutes later Mr. Flint himself came to register the letter.  But it was done at the window, and the loafers and idlers were still there.

The curtain had risen again, indeed, and the action was soon fast enough for the most impatient that day.  No sooner had the town heard with bated breath of the expulsion of the first citizen from the inner sanctuary of the post-office, than the news of another event began to go the rounds.  Mr. Worthington had other and more important things to think about than minor postmasters, and after his anger and—­yes, and momentary fear had subsided, he forgot the incident except to make a mental note to remember to deprive Mr. Prescott of his postmastership, which he believed could be done readily enough now that Jethro Bass was out of the way.  Then he had stepped into the bank, which he had come to regard as his own bank, as he regarded most institutions in Brampton.  He had, in the old days, been president of it, as we know.  He stepped into the bank, and then—­he stepped out again.

Most people have experienced that sickly feeling of the diaphragm which sometimes comes from a sadden shock.  Mr. Worthington had it now as he hurried up the street, and he presently discovered that he was walking in the direction opposite to that of his own home.  He crossed the street, made a pretence of going into Mr. Goldthwaite’s drug store, and hurried back again.  When he reached his own library, he found Mr. Flint busy there at his desk.  Mr. Flint rose.  Mr. Worthington sat down and began to pull the papers about in a manner which betrayed to his seneschal (who knew every mood of his master) mental perturbation.