Already she had another in process of construction, and she pillowed her cheek against the battered volume containing the encounter between Cophetua and the beggar maid, though he was not a king, and she was not pauperized. “I think, perhaps, it’s even sweeter,” she whispered, as she fell asleep.
* * * * *
Down in the village of Yellow Dog, the club which the Star had built for its miners was ablaze not only with lights, but with excitement.
There was a circle of miners around the room.
In the center of the floor lay a man who had been shaken into a little heap of clothes; a heap that stirred with caution even in catching breath, lest more punishment should follow.
Over it towered Dick Trevanion’s sturdy figure, made brawnier still by rage.
“Any more remarks about Mr. Ned and his clothes?” he demanded, sweeping that quiet group with furious eyes.
There was not a breath from them. Trevanion’s reputation as an athlete and a boxer was a matter of local pride.
He walked across the room to the door and flung it open.
Then he turned his flushed face to them.