Vaniman leaped from his seat with a suddenness that was startling in that interior where peace prevailed and composure marked all acts.  For the first time in his stay in the Hexter home his mood fought with the serenity of the place.  The prospect of that bland contest with disks and dice was hateful, all of a sudden.  His rioting feelings needed room—­air—­somehow there seemed to be something outside that he ought to attend to.

“Dear folks, let me off for to-night,” he pleaded.  “It’s been a hard day for me—­in the bank—­I’m nervous—­I think a walk will do me good.”

He rushed into the hallway without waiting for any reply.  He put on his cap and finished pulling on his overcoat when he was outside the house.  His first impulse was to stride away from the village—­go out along the country road to avoid the men who scowled at him as Britt’s right-hand servitor.

But he noted that some kind of tumult seemed to be going on in the village—­and any kind of tumult fitted the state of his emotions right then.  He hurried toward the tavern.

Up and down the street men were marching, to and fro before Usial’s shop.  Vaniman saw tossing torches and the light revealed that some of the marchers wore oilcloth capes, evidently relics of some past and gone political campaign when parades were popular.

There was music, of a sort.  A trombone blatted—­there was the staccato tuck of a snare drum, and the boom of a bass drum came in with isochronal beats.

Vaniman went to the tavern porch and stood there with other onlookers.

“Give Ike Jones half a chance with that old tramboon of his and he ain’t no slouch as a musicianer,” remarked Landlord Files to the young man.  “I hope Egypt is waking up to stay so.”

“If we keep on, the town will get to be lively enough to suit even a city chap like you are,” said another citizen.  “Hope you’re going to stay with us!” But there was no cordiality in that implied invitation; that there was malice which hoped to start something was promptly revealed.  “In spite of what is reported about Tasp Britt firing you out of your job!” sneered the man.

The morrow held no promise for Vaniman, no matter what the Squire had said in the way of reassurance.  To stay with Britt in that bank would be intolerable punishment.  He decided that he might as well talk back to Egypt as Egypt deserved to be talked to, considering what line of contumely had been passed in through that bank wicket.  He was obliged to speak loudly in order to be heard over the trombone and the drums.  Therefore, everybody in the crowd got what he said; he was young, deeply stirred, and he had held back his feelings for a long time.  “I’m going to leave this God-forsaken, cat-fight dump just as soon as I can make my arrangements to get away.  Good night!”

He was ashamed of himself the moment that speech was out of his mouth.  He was so much ashamed that he immediately became afraid he would be moved to apologize; and he was also ashamed to apologize.  He was, therefore, suffering from a peculiar mixture of emotions, and realized that fact, and hurried off before his tongue could get him into any worse scrape.