"Indeed! Something of a coincidence."

"Indeed so."

"I'll get these papers off to the sheriff down there on the evening train. He'll get them tomorrow morning, and should get service on him tomorrow afternoon."

"Then I'll see you about Saturday."

"All right," and Jean was gone.

The little town near where Jean Baptiste was born, and where he had met the man who was now his acknowledged enemy, had not changed much. Perched on the banks of the Ohio, it still lingered in a state of dull lethargy; loafers held to the corners, and arguments were the usual daily routine. When he had left the town, the Odd Fellows' hall, an old frame building, three stories high, had stood conspicuously on a corner, and had been the rendezvous for loafers for years untold. This had been torn down and replaced since by a more commanding brick structure, at the front of which a shed spread over the walk and made welcome shade in the afternoon. And under it on benches the usual crowd gathered reposing comfortably thereunder from day to day. Under it the preachers sometimes paused on their return from the postoffice where they received their mail every afternoon. And it was the afternoon train that brought the papers for N. Justine McCarthy. The sheriff who happened at the postoffice at the same time the Elder did, received them, and upon his return to his office in the court house, laid the mail on his desk and went at once to serve the papers.

He knew that Odd Fellows' hall was where Negroes might be easily found; at least the information as to the whereabouts of any particular one might be obtained. So to that spot he went directly.

It so happened that a large crowd of Negroes were gathered there this particular afternoon, and that the Reverend had paused there on his way from the postoffice to listen to the heated argument that was a daily diversion. At that moment the sheriff came up, listened a moment to the usual harangue, and then inquired aloud for Rev. N.J. McCarthy. When the crowd saw who he was the argument desisted forthwith, the crowd became quiet and respectful, moreover expectant.

"You refer to me?" said the Elder, and wondered what the sheriff could possibly want with him.

"N.J. McCarthy?" the other repeated.

"That's me," replied the Elder. The crowd looked on with curious interest.

"Some papers," and handed him the same, turned on his heel and went his way.

The Reverend went down the street later reading the papers. He had never had any experience in legal proceedings, and knew little of such, but he understood the papers and was thoroughly angry.

"Well," greeted the attorney, "got service right off on your friend."

"Good!"

"Yes, got my return, and now we may as well draw up the complaint."