"So it does," the editor agreed, lifting the box and breathing the perfume of the pale little flower.
"And that ain't all," Peeler whispered, "look inside of it."
He opened the lid and drew out a tightly folded scrap of paper on which was written in pencil the words:
"You lying, hypocritical, blaspheming old scoundrel—unless you leave the country within forty-eight hours, this coffin will be large enough to hold all we'll leave of you.
K. K. K."
The editor frowned and then smiled.
"All a joke, Peeler," he said reassuringly.
But Peeler was not convinced. He leaned close and his whiskey-laden breath seemed to fill the room as his fat finger rested on the word "blaspheming:"
"I don't like that word, major; it sounds like a preacher had something to do with the writin' of it. You know I've been a tough customer in my day and I used to cuss the preachers in this county somethin' frightful. Now, ye see, if they should be in this Ku Klux Klan—I ain't er skeered er their hell hereafter, but they sho' might give me a taste in this world of what they think's comin' to me in the next. I tell you that thing makes the cold chills run down my back. Now, major, I reckon you're about the level-headest and the most influential man in the county—the question is, what shall I do to be saved?"
Again Norton laughed: