His burly form underwent a series of convulsions not unlike sobs, and he shut his eyes tightly and held them so, presenting a picture of misery unequalled in the memory of any spectator.

Harkless's outstretched hand began to shake.

"You!" he tried to continue--"you, a man elected to----" There came from the crowd the sound of a sad, high-keyed voice, drawling: "That's a nice vest Jim's got on, but it ain't hardly the feathers fitten for an ostrich, is it ?" The editor's gravity gave way; he broke into a ringing laugh and turned again to the shell-men.

"Give up the boy's money.

Hurry." "Step down here and git it," said the one who had spoken.
There was a turbulent motion in the crowd, and a cry arose, "Run 'em out! Ride 'em on a rail! Tar and feathers! Run 'em out o' town!" "I wouldn't dilly-dally long if I were you," said Harkless, and his advice seemed good to the shell-men.