and our finest cities except some street paving and a few cellars with weeds in 'em. You get me, John?"
The courier wiped his brow. "Yes, sir. I think the ladies may think we keep them waiting too long."
"I expect so." But Tinker looked at the odd round platform and still lingered. "I suppose he lived in this town here."
"Yes, sir. Bône. It is ancient Hippo."
"Shouldn't think anybody'd want to have his city called either one o' those names. Looks like he was a good citizen, though, and thought a lot of the place—wantin' to be buried here and all. Yes, sir; any man's city can get along without him; but no man can get along without his city!" Thoughtfully, he began to walk away, ascending the upper slope of the hill, the courier beside him. "Did that old fellow ever do anything besides what you told me, John?"
"He wrote some other books. One is called 'The City of God.'"
"Is that so!" Tinker was strongly and favourably impressed. He paused and looked down at the roofs and gardens of Bône between the hill and sea. "Is that so? He did?" For a moment it was evident that he discovered some point of high congeniality between himself and the great Bishop: he glanced
