There is a crowd in the post-office--mostly men who are going away to war.

The stage has come in, and a stranger, better dressed than the men of Sycamore Ridge, is behind the letter-boxes of the post-office.

The boy is watching his box; for it is the day when the _Springfield Republican_ is due.

Gradually the hum in front of the boxes quiets, and two loud voices have risen behind the screen.

Then out walks great Martin Culpepper, white of face, with pent-up fury.
His left hand is clutched like a talon in the shoulder of the stranger, whom Martin is holding before him.