“Suppose you do say!” counseled Mr. Britt, menace in his tones.  “I’ve got a new and special reason, right now, why I demand that every citizen must uphold the good name of our town—­especially a citizen in your position, first to meet all arriving strangers.  Why does the name fit this town?” He banged the handle of his knife on the table.

Mr. Britt had reason for the heat which he was displaying and which caused the stranger to open his eyes more widely.  Mr. Britt was fully aware that men called him “Phay-ray-oh” and that his statue in the cemetery was called “The Sphinx.”  He knew that since the town had gone on the down grade through debt and the decay of industries the inhabitants had begun to call themselves “The Children of Israel,” and to say they were trying to make bricks without straw.  In face, an itinerant evangelist who called himself “The Light of the World” had come to town and was trying to exhort the inhabitants into rebellion against conditions, and in his crack-brained hysteria was having some success in exciting “The Children” to protest against the domination by Tasper Britt.

Mr. Files was not as handy with his tongue as he was with the mallet with which he pounded steak.  He struggled with an inept reply about an old town having a dignified old name.  He stuttered and stopped when Britt came and stood in front of him, chewing savagely on a toothpick.

“Files, I wasn’t intending to make a formal announcement till my political manager, Ossian Orne, gets back with reports from the field.  Not but what I expect that when it is known that I’m willing to accept political honor it will be given to me.  But when I sit in the next legislature of this state as Representative Britt of Egypt, I propose to represent a town that ain’t slurred at home or abroad.  Hereafter, mind your tongue and advise others to do the same.”

He stamped out.  Landlord Files was left standing with an open mouth from which no speech issued.

“Emperor, or only a plain king?” inquired the bagman.

“You being a stranger, I can let out some of my feelings,” returned Mr. Files.  “Emperor, you say?  He might just as well try to be one as to run for the legislature.”

The drummer showed interest.

“That’s what getting to be a widderer can do to some men,” confided the landlord.  He placed a smutty hand on the table and leaned down.  “That legislature thing ain’t the half of it, mister!  He hasn’t blacked his whiskers and bought that false mane simply so as to get into politics.  He’s trying to court the prettiest girl in this town.”

“Aha!” said the drummer.  “The old story!  Cleopatra, queen of Egypt, is doing the job over again with the local Mark Antony!”

“Mebbe,” admitted Mr. Files, his fishy gaze revealing that he had no personal knowledge of the parties mentioned.  “It’s the old story, all right.  Widdereritis, and a bad run of it.”

The bagman had a scarfpin in the shape of a horse shoe.  His comment was in line with his taste in adornment.  “Files, old scout, if a colt is put to harness so early that he can’t get his natural fling in the fields, he’ll have it at the other end of his life, when he’s let run to pasture, spavin or no spavin.  Why don’t Egypt hold off and let Uncle What’s-his-name enjoy his new hair and hopes?”