"But the boys is pretty well beat out, and so I've run over to ask
if you'll let us use your ten-dollar fine for a treat? That will help
their feelin's to'ards you a good deal, and--"
The Cap'n, without taking his eyes from the smug face of the man,
swung one of the buckets and let drive at him. It missed. But he had
got his range, and the next bucket knocked off the scoop hat. When
the Cap'n scrambled to his feet, loaded with the bed-wrench for his
next volley, the man turned and ran for his team. The bed-wrench
caught him directly between the shoulders--a masterly shot. The
trumpet flew wild, but by that time the emissary of the Ancients was
in his wagon and away.
"Aaron!" his wife began, quaveringly, but the Cap'n leaped toward
her, pulled the mouth of the puckering-bag over her head, and hopped
into the house. When at last she ventured to peer in at the
sitting-room window, he was tearing the book of "Rules of the Smyrna
Ancient and Honorable Firemen's Association," using both his hands
and his teeth, and worrying it as a dog worries a bone.
That was his unofficial resignation. The official one came as soon
as he could control his language.
And for a certain, prolonged period in the history of the town of
Smyrna it was well understood that Cap'n Aaron Sproul was definitely
out of public affairs. But in public affairs it often happens that
honors that are elusive when pursued are thrust upon him who does
not seek them.