The last sentence captured the windmill man.

The last sentence captured the windmill man. He was not one to linger in the dumps. "That's a first-rate scheme, Judge," he said, heartily. "Be a regular short-story vaudeville, won't it? I used to be correspondent for a paper in Springfield, and when there wasn't any news I faked it. Guess I can do my turn all right." "I think the idea is charming," said the lady passenger, brightly. "It will be almost like a game." Judge Menefee stepped forward and placed the apple in her hand impressively. "In olden days," he said, orotundly, "Paris awarded the golden apple to the most beautiful." "I was at the Exposition," remarked the windmill man, now cheerful again, "but I never heard of it. And I was on the Midway, too, all the time I wasn't at the machinery exhibit."