Their faces were
turned toward the court-house, and even those lost in meditative whittling
had looked up to laugh. Martin, his hands in the pockets of his alpaca
coat, his rusty silk hat tilted forward till the wide brim rested almost
on the bridge of his nose, was addressing them in his one-keyed voice, the
melancholy whine of which, though not the words, penetrated to the court-
house steps.
The bell-ringer, whose name was Henry Schofield, but who was known as
Schofield's Henry (popularly abbreviated to Schofields') was moved to
indignation. "Look at him," he cried. "Look at him! Everlastingly goin' on
about my bell! Let him talk, jest let him talk." The supper gong boomed
inside the hotel and Harkless bade the bell-ringer good-night. As he moved
away the latter called after him: "He don't disturb nobody. Let him talk.
Who pays any 'tention to him I'd like to know?" There was a burst of
laughter from the whittlers. Schofields' sat in patient silence for a full
minute, as one who knew that no official is too lofty to escape the
anathemas of envy. Then he sprang to his feet and shook his fist at
Martin, who was disappearing within the door of the hotel. "Go to
Halifax!" he shouted.
The dining-room of the Palace Hotel was a large, airy apartment, rustling
with artistically perforated and slashed pink paper that hung everywhere,
at this season of the year, to lend festal effect as well as to palliate
the scourge of flies.
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