“How do you do, Colonel Lathrop?� exclaimed the Lord of Papyrus, effusively.
“That you, Baldwin?� replied the Westerner; “you have a delightful town here.�
“So we think;� and the little millionaire paper-maker rubbed his hands in self-congratulation; “but we have a few evil-minded cranks among us who think they could improve matters. However, I think the boys will drive out the worst one within a week.�
“Who is he? Who would think of finding fault with such a paradise as this?� pursued the Colonel.
“No one but a fool—a crank named Wycliff. There he is now, cleaning the street, with the rest of Maxwell’s gang—a job just suited to him, except that he ought not to have any employment at all in a decent town.�
“Wycliff? Wycliff? John Wycliff?—One-eyed Wycliff?�
“Yes, that’s the man. Do you know him?� asked the little man in surprise.
“I rather think I do,� replied Colonel Lathrop, pulling out his wallet, “and here’s a hundred dollars that says you don’t drive John Wycliff out of Papyrus, and that if you try it you’ll have the biggest job for the Coroner you ever had in Berkshire. What! Won’t put up the money?� and the big ranchman looked down on the little millionaire with contempt.
“There’s no blood in your neck, is there!�
The dapper little churchman was shocked that anyone should expect him to do such a vulgar, unchristian thing as to bet, but he controlled himself long enough to ask:—