“Mr. Barnes comes late, but he comes in style and with all his bells,” Vona suggested.

The equipage swung up beside the tavern porch and the big man threw off the robes and stamped in, leaving the driver to take the horses to the stable.

Landlord Files had furnished an accompaniment for the clangor of the bells; he was pounding his dinner gong.

The new arrival had a foghorn voice and used it in hearty volume in telling Mr. Files that his music was all right and mighty timely!  “And that alligator seems to be calling for his grub, too,” he remarked, on his way to hang up his coat.  “But he doesn’t look any hungrier than I feel.”

“Room?” inquired the landlord, hopefully, swinging the register book and pulling a pen out of a withered potato.

“No room!  Just dinner.  I expect to be out of here by night.”

Mr. Files stabbed the potato with a vicious pen thrust.  He knew food capacity when he viewed it; there would be some profit from a lodging, but none from a two-shilling meal served to a man who had compared himself with that open-mouthed saurian.

But the guest grabbed the penstock while it was still vibrating.  He wrote across the book, with great flourishes:  “Fremont Starr.  State Bank Examiner.  February 21st.”

“A matter of record, landlord!  Show’s I’m here.  Tells the world I was here on date noted.  Never can tell when the law will call for records.  Hotel registers are fine evidence.  Always keep your registers.”

“I’ve had that one eleven years, and it ’ain’t been filled up yet,” averred Mr. Files, inspecting the potentate’s signature as sourly as if he were estimating by how much the lavish use of ink had reduced the possible dinner profit.  “You’re the new appointment, hey?  I heard you speak, one time, over at the political rally in the shire town.”

“Both my enemies and my friends would have advised you to stay right here on your porch—­saying that you could hear me just as well, if you didn’t care to make the trip to the shire,” said Mr. Starr, lifting the mat of his mustache in a wide smile.  “But when they call me ’Foghorn Fremont’ I’m never one mite offended.  ’Let your light shine and your voice be heard,’ is my motto in politics.”

“Shouldn’t wonder if it’s a good one, when they get to passing around the offices,” admitted Files.  He started on his way to the kitchen.

At that moment President Britt entered, having answered the gong with the promptitude of a fireman chasing a box alarm.

“What have you on the fire, landlord?” called Mr. Starr, absorbed in the dinner topic.

“Boiled dinner!”

Britt did not show the enthusiasm that was exhibited by the other guest.

“Nothing like a boiled dinner after a long ride,” Mr. Starr affirmed.  “Plenty of cabbage with mine, if you’ll be so kind!”

Files gave Mr. Britt some information that he thought might be of interest.  “Here’s the new bank examiner.  Seeing that you probably have business together, I’ll set both of you at the same table.”  He retired.