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“Behold, he is here,” said Foster, in confirmation of the statement. “Good for you, Squire; git breath and go for us some more.”

“Hurrah for the Squire,” etc.

“I came seekin’ whom I might devour, like a raging lion. I sought foeman worthy of my steel. I leaped into the arena and blew my challenge to the four quarters of Rock”—-

“Good f’r you! Settemupagin! Go it, you old balloon,” they all applauded.

“Knowing my prowess, I sought a fair fout and no favors. I met the enemy, and he was mine. Champion after champion went down before me like–went down like–Ahem! went down before me like grass before the mighty cyclone of the Andes.”

“Listen to the old blowhard,” said Steve.

“Put him out,” said the speaker, imperturbably. “Gentlemen, have I the floor?”

“You have,” replied Brown, “but come to the point. The Colonel is anxious to begin shooting.” The Colonel, who began to suspect himself victimized, stood wondering what under heaven they were going to do next.

“I am a-gitt’n’ there,” said the orator with a broad and sunny condescension. “I found your champions an’ laid ’em low. I waxed Walters, and then I tackled the Colonel. I tried the echelon, the ‘general advance,’ then the ‘give away’ and ‘flank’ movements. But the Colonel was there! Till this last game it was a fair field and no favor. And now, gentlemen of Rock, I desire t’ state to my deeply respected opponent that he is still champion of Rock, and I’m not sure but of Northern Iowa.”

“Three cheers for the Kunnel!”

And while they were being given the Colonel’s brows relaxed, and the champion of Cerro Gordo continued earnestly:

“And now I wish to state to Colonel the solemn fact that I had nothing to do with the job put up on him to-night. I scorn to use such means in a battle. Colonel, you may be as bald as an apple, or an egg, yes, or a plate, but you can play more checkers than any man I ever met; more checkers than any other man on God’s green footstool. With one single, lone exception–myself.”

At this moment, somebody hit the Squire from Cerro Gordo with a decayed apple, and as the crowd shouted and groaned Robie turned down the lights on the tumult. The old Colonel seized the opportunity for putting a handful of salt down Walters’ neck, and slipped out of the door like a ghost. As the crowd swarmed out on the icy walk, Editor Foster yelled:

“Gents! let me give you a pointer. Keep your eye peeled for the next edition of the Rock River Morning Call.”

And the bitter wind swept away the answering shouts of the pitiless gang.