“I have a warrant for the arrest of John Stoker,” said he.
“I’m here,” said Stoker, sneering and white; and Mrs. Stoker fainted.
Everybody stared; all seized hats; like rats the euchre players slunk away; the Corinthian cottage, like a bedizened but deserted courtesan, stood gaudily shining in the night, alone.
Later the town awoke, as the high-roller awakes next morning with a suffering and repentant head, and the readjustment began. Everybody owed somebody for prizes, as, in ’88, everybody owed somebody for lots. Everybody was a buffer to everybody. The thing let itself down and evened itself up, and nobody was hard on anybody. And thus the euchre boom passed into history.
Now the church people began to rehabilitate their consciences. And Banker Wheelock hit upon a scheme. As financier of the bankrupt soul, Wheelock will ever stand out a genius.
“Why,” said he to Botts, “we did it to help Hummel.”
“True,” said Botts, dazzled; “let’s go and tell him.”
And on a Saturday evening a score of citizens came to Hummel’s house.
Hummel was lying pallid on a lounge.
“We’ve come,” said Wheelock, blandly, “to felicitate you. We couldn’t bear to see you carry that debt, Hummel. We fixed the little thing in what was, I agree, an unprecedented way. But when we schemed beforehand with Mrs. Stoker to give a party and pass the victory on to your wife—Hummel, my friend, our hearts went with it!”