Here Lies the Body of THOSPIT Wagg,
     In Politics a Whig. 
     By Occupation a Cooper in a Hoop-pole Town. 
     Now Food for Worms. 
     Here I Lie, Like an Old Rum Puncheon,
     Marked, Numbered and Shooked,
     To be Raised at Last and Finished by the Hand of My Maker.

As Egypt knew, Usial Britt did not print for profit.  He accepted no pay of any sort for the product of his press.  When the spirit moved, or he felt that the occasion demanded comment in print, he “stuck” the worn type, composing directly from the case without first putting his thoughts on paper, and printed and issued a sheet which he titled The Hornet.  Sometimes The Hornet buzzed blandly—­more often it stung savagely.

Vaniman obeyed his impulse; he went to the door and knocked.  He had always found Usial Britt in a sociable mood.

“Who is it?” inquired the shoemaker.

“Vaniman of the bank.”

“Leave your job, whatever it is, on the threshold, sir.”

“I am not bringing you any work, Mr. Britt.”

“Then kindly pass on; I’m in executive session, sir.”

The grumble of the cogs and the squeak of the press went on.

So did Vaniman, after he had waited at the door for a few moments.

Squire Hexter had a corner of his table cleaned of paper litter, in readiness for the euchre game.

He was tilted back in his chair, smoking his blackened T. D. pipe, and a swinging boot was scraping to and fro along the spine of a fuzzy old dog whose head was meditatively lowered while he enjoyed the scratching.  The Squire called the old dog “Eli”; that name gave Hexter a frequent opportunity to turn his little joke about having owned another dog that he called “Uli” and presented to a brother lawyer as an appropriate gift.

The Squire had little dabs of whiskers on his cheeks like fluffs of cotton batting, and his wide mouth linked those dabs when he smiled.

He came forward promptly in his chair, slapped his palm on the waiting pack of cards, and cut for the deal while Vaniman was throwing off his coat.

“Judging by signs, as I came past Britt’s shop, The Hornet is getting ready to buzz again,” said the cashier.

“Aye!  I reckoned as much.  I have looked across there from time to time to-day and have seen customers knocking in vain on the door.  It’s your deal, boy!”

Vaniman shuffled obediently.

“And there was a run-in this morning between your boss and his brother,” observed the Squire, scratching a match.  “And Eli, here, called my attention to the fact that two sun dogs, strangers to him, were chasing along with the sun all the forenoon.  Signs of trouble, boy—­sure signs!” He sorted his cards.  It was more of the Squire’s regular line of humor to ascribe to Eli various sorts of comment and counsel.

“How crazy do you think Prophet Elias is?” inquired the young man, avoiding further reference to his employer.