XI

The president of the "Smyrna Agricultural Fair and Gents' Driving

Association" had been carrying something on his mind throughout the

meeting of the trustees of the society--the last meeting before the

date advertised for the fair. And now, not without a bit of

apprehensiveness, he let it out.

"I've invited the Honer'ble J. Percival Bickford to act as the

starter and one of the judges of the races," he announced.

Trustee Silas Wallace, superintendent of horses, had put on his hat.

Now he took it off again.

"What!" he almost squalled.

"You see," explained the president, with eager conciliatoriness,

"we've only got to scratch his back just a little to have him--"

"Why, 'Kittle-belly' Bickford don't know no more about hoss-trottin'

than a goose knows about the hard-shell Baptist doctrine," raved

Wallace, his little eyes popping like marbles.

"I don't like to hear a man that's done so much for his native town

called by any such names," retorted the president, ready to show

temper himself, to hide his embarrassment. "He's come back here

and--"

Trustee Wallace now stood up and cracked his bony knuckles on the

table, his weazened face puckered with angry ridges.

"I don't need to have a printed catalogue of what Jabe Bickford has

done for this town. And I don't need to be told what he's done it

for. He's come back from out West, where he stole more money than

he knew what to do with, and--"

"I protest!" cried President Thurlow Kitchen. "When you say that the

Honer'ble J. Percival Bickford has stolen--"

"Well, promoted gold-mines, then! It's only more words to say the

same thing. And he's back here spendin' his loose change for daily

doses of hair-oil talk fetched to him by the beggin' old suckers of

this place."

"I may be a beggin' old sucker," flared the president, "but I've had

enterprise enough and interest in this fair enough to get Mr.

Bickford to promise us a present of a new exhibition hall, and it's

only right to extend some courtesy to him in return."

"It was all right to make him president of the lib'ry association

when he built the lib'ry, make him a deacon when he gave the organ

for the meetin'-house, give him a banquet and nineteen speeches

tellin' him he was the biggest man on earth when he put the stone

watering-trough in--all that was all right for them that thought it

was all right. But when you let 'Kittle-belly' Bickford--"

"Don't you call him that," roared President Kitchen, thumping the

table.

"Duke, then! Dammit, crown him lord of all! But when you let him hang

that pod of his out over the rail of that judges' stand and bust up

a hoss-trot programmy that I've been three months gettin' entries

for--and all jest so he can show off a white vest and a plug hat and

a new gold stop-watch and have the band play 'Hail to the Chief'--I

don't stand for it--no, sir!"

"The trouble is with you," retorted the president with spirit,

"you've razoo-ed and hoss-jockeyed so long you've got the idea that

all there is to a fair is a plug of chaw-tobacco, a bag of peanuts,

and a posse of nose-whistlin' old pelters skatin' round a half-mile

track."

"And you and 'Kit'--you and Duke Jabe, leave you alone to run a

fair--wouldn't have northin' but his new exhibition hall filled with

croshayed tidies and hooked rugs."

"Well, I move," broke in Trustee Dunham, "that we git som'ers. I'm

personally in favor of pleasin' Honer'ble Bickford and takin' the

exhibition hall."

"That's right! That's business!" came decisive chorus from the other

three trustees. "Let's take the hall."

Wallace doubled his gaunt form, propped himself on the table by his

skinny arms, and stared from face to face in disgust unutterable.

"Take it?" he sneered. "Why, you'll take anything! You're takin' up

the air in this room, like pumpin' up a sulky tire, and ain't lettin'

it out again! Good-day! I'm goin' out where I can get a full breath."

He whirled on them at the door.

"But you hark to what I'm predictin' to you! If you don't wish the

devil had ye before you're done with that old balloon with a plug

hat on it in your judges' stand, then I'll trot an exhibition half

mile on my hands and knees against Star Pointer for a bag of oats.

And I'm speakin' for all the hossmen in this county."

When this uncomfortable Jeremiah had departed, leaving in his wake

a trailing of oaths and a bouquet of stable aroma, the trustees showed

relief, even if enthusiasm was notably absent.

"It's going to raise the tone of the fair, having him in the

stand--there ain't any getting round that," said the president. "The

notion seemed to strike him mighty favorable. 'It's an idea!' said

he to me. 'Yes, a real idea. I will have other prominent gentlemen

to serve with me, and we will be announced as paytrons of the races.

That will sound well, I think.' And he asked me what two men in town

was best fixed financially, and, of course, I told him Cap'n Aaron

Sproul, our first selectman, and Hiram Look. He said he hadn't been

in town long enough to get real well acquainted with either of them

yet, but hoped they were gentlemen. I told him they were. I reckon

that being skipper of a ship and ownin' a circus stands as high as

the gold-mine business."

"Well," said one of the trustees, with some venom, "Jabe Bickford

is doin' a good deal for this town, one way and another, but he wants

to remember that his gran'ther had to call on us for town aid, and

that there wa'n't nary ever another Bickford that lived in this town

or went out of it, except Jabe, that could get trusted for a barrel

of flour. Puttin' on his airs out West is all right, but puttin' 'em

on here to home, among us that knows him and all his breed, is makin'

some of the old residents kind of sick. Si Wallace hadn't ought to

call him by that name he did, but Si is talkin' the way a good many

feel."

"If an angel from heaven should descend on this town with the gift

of abidin' grace," said President Kitchen, sarcastically, "a lot of

folks here would get behind his back and make faces at him."

"Prob'ly would," returned the trustee, imperturbably, "if said angel

wore a plug hat and kid gloves from mornin' till night, said 'Me good

man' to old codgers who knowed him when he had stone-bruises on his

heels as big as pigeon's aigs, and otherwise acted as though he was

cream and every one else was buttermilk."

"Well, when some of the rest of you have done as much for this town

as Honer'ble Bickford," broke in the president, testily, "you can

have the right to criticise. As it is, I can't see anything but

jealousy in it. And I've heard enough of it. Now, to make this thing

all pleasant and agreeable to the Honer'ble Bickford, we've got to

have Cap'n Sproul and Hiram Look act as judges with him. 'Tis a vote!

Now, who will see Cap'n Sproul and--"

"Considerin' what has happened to those who have in times past tried

to notify Cap'n Sproul of honors tendered to him in this town, you'd

better pick out some one who knows how to use the wireless telegraph,"

suggested one of the trustees.

"There won't be any trouble in gettin' Hiram Look to act," said the

president. "He's just enough of a circus feller to like to stand up

before the crowd and show authority. Well, then"--the president's

wits were sharpened by his anxiety over the proposed exhibition

hall--"let Mr. Look arrange it with Cap'n Sproul. They're suckin'

cider through the same straw these days."

And this suggestion was so eminently good that the meeting adjourned

in excellent humor that made light of all the gloomy prognostications

of Trustee Wallace.

As though good-fortune were in sooth ruling the affairs of the Smyrna

A.F. & G.D.A., Hiram Look came driving past as the trustees came out

of the tavern, their meeting-place.

He stroked his long mustache and listened. At first his silk hat stuck

up rigidly, but soon it began to nod gratified assent.

"I don't know much about hoss-trottin' rules, but a man that's been

in the show business for thirty years has got enough sportin' blood

in him for the job, I reckon. Bickford and Sproul, hey? Why, yes!

I'll hunt up the Cap, and take him over to Bickford's, and we'll

settle preliminaries, or whatever the hoss-talk is for gettin'

together. I'd rather referee a prize-fight, but you're too dead up

this way for real sport to take well. Nothing been said to Sproul?

All right! I'll fix him."

Cap'n Sproul was in his garden, surveying the growing "sass" with

much content of spirit. He cheerfully accepted Hiram's invitation

to take a ride, destination not mentioned, and they jogged away

toward "Bickburn Towers," as the Honorable J. Percival had named the

remodelled farm-house of his ancestors.

Hiram, whose gift was language, impetuous in flow and convincing in

argument, whether as barker or friend, conveyed the message of the

trustees to Cap'n Sproul. But the first selectman of Smyrna did not

display enthusiasm. He scowled at the buggy dasher and was silent.

"Men that have been out and about, like you and I have been, need

something once in a while to break the monotony of country life,"

concluded Hiram, slashing his whip at the wayside alders.

"You and me and him," observed the Cap'n, with sullen prod of his

thumb in direction of the "gingerbready" tower of the Bickford place

rising over the ridge, "marooned in that judges' stand like penguins

on a ledge--we'll be li'ble to break the monotony. Oh yes! There ain't

no doubt about that."

"Why, there'll be northin' to it!" blustered Hiram, encouragingly.

"I'll swear 'em into line, you holler 'Go!' and the Honer'ble

Bickford will finger that new gold stop-watch of his and see how fast

they do it. Northin' to it, I say!"

"This is the blastedest town a man ever settled down in to spend his

last days in peace and quietness," growled the Cap'n. "There's a set

of men here that seem to be perfickly happy so long as they're rollin'

up a gob of trouble, sloppin' a little sweet-oil and molasses on the

outside and foolin' some one into swallerin' it. I tell ye, Look,

I've lived here a little longer than you have, and when you see a

man comin' to offer you what they call an honor, kick him on general

principles, and kick him hard."

"Doctors ought to be willin' to take their own medicine," retorted

Hiram, grimly. "Here you be, first selec'man and--"

"They caught me when I wa'n't lookin'--not bein' used to the ways

of land-piruts," replied the Cap'n, gloomily. "I was tryin' to warn

you as one that's been ahead and knows."

"Why, that's just what I like about this town," blurted Hiram,

undismayed. "When I came home to Palermo a year ago or so, after all

my wanderin's, they wouldn't elect me so much as hog-reeve--seemed

to be down on me all 'round. But here--heard what they did last

night?" There was pride in his tones. "They elected me foreman of

the Smyrna Ancient and Honer'ble Firemen's Association."

"And you let 'em hornswoggle you into takin' it?" demanded the Cap'n.

"Leather buckets, piazzy hat, speakin'-trumpet, bed-wrench, and

puckerin'-string bag are in my front hall this minit," said Hiram,

cheerily, "and the wife is gittin' the stuff together for the feed

and blow-out next week. I'm goin' to do it up brown!"

The Cap'n opened his mouth as though to enter upon revelations. But

he shut it without a word.

"It ain't no use," he reflected, his mind bitter with the memories

of his own occupancy of that office. "It's like the smallpox and the

measles; you've got to have a run of 'em yourself before you're safe

from ketchin' 'em."

The Honorable J. Percival Bickford, rotund and suave with the

mushiness of the near-gentleman, met them graciously in the hall,

having waited for the servant to announce them.

Hiram did most of the talking, puffing at one of the host's long

cigars. Cap'n Sproul sat on the edge of a spider-legged chair, great

unhappiness on his countenance. Mr. Bickford was both charmed and

delighted, so he said, by their acceptance, and made it known that

he had suggested them, in his anxiety to have only gentlemen of

standing associated with him.

"As the landed proprietors of the town, as you might say," he observed,

"it becomes us as due our position to remove ourselves a little from

the herd. In the judges' stand we can, as you might say, be patrons

of the sports of the day, without loss of dignity. I believe--and

this is also my suggestion--that the trustees are to provide an open

barouche, and we will be escorted from the gate to the stand by a

band of music. That will be nice. And when it is over we will award

the prizes, as I believe they call it--"

"Announce winners of heats and division of purses," corrected Hiram,

out of his greater knowledge of sporting affairs. "I'll do that

through a megaphone. When I barked in front of my show you could hear

me a mile."

"It will all be very nice," said Mr. Bickford, daintily flecking

cigar ash from his glorious white waistcoat. "Er--by the way--I see

that you customarily wear a silk hat, Mr. Look."

"It needs a plug hat, a lemon, and a hunk of glass to run a circus,"

said the ex-showman.

"Yes, men may say what they like, Mr. Look, the people expect certain

things in the way of garb from those whom they honor with position.

Er--do you wear a silk hat officially, Captain Sproul, as selectman?"

"Not by a--never had one of the things on!" replied the Cap'n,

moderating his first indignant outburst.

"I'm going to do you a bit of neighborly kindness," said Mr. Bickford,

blandly. "James," he called to the servant, "bring the brown bandbox

in the hall closet. It's one of my hats," he explained. "I have

several. You may wear it in the stand, with my compliments, Captain

Sproul. Then we'll be three of a kind, eh? Ha, ha!"

The Cap'n licked his lips as though fever burned there, and worked

his Adam's apple vigorously. Probably if he had been in the

accustomed freedom of outdoors he would have sworn soulfully and

smashed the bandbox over the Honorable J. Percival's bald head. Now,

in the stilted confines of that ornate parlor, he nursed the bandbox

on his knees, as part of the rest of the spider-legged and frail

surroundings. When they retired to their team he carried the bandbox

held gingerly out in front of him, tiptoeing across the polished

floor.

"What? Me wear that bird-cage?" he roared, when they were out of

hearing. "Not by the great jeehookibus!"

"Yes, you will," returned Hiram, with the calm insistence of a friend.

"You ain't tryin' to make out that what I do ain't all right and proper,

are you?"

Cap'n Sproul checked an apparent impulse to toss the bandbox into

the roadside bushes, and after a moment tucked the thing under the

seat to have it out of the way of his tempted hands. Then he wrenched

off a huge chew of tobacco whose rumination might check his impulse

toward tempestuous language.

He tried the hat on that night in the presence of his admiring wife,

gritting curses under his breath, his skin prickling with resentment.

He swore then that he would never wear it. But on the day of the race

he carried it in its box to the selectman's office, at which common

meeting-place the three judges were to be taken up by the official

barouche of the Smyrna Fair Association.

Under the commanding eye of Hiram Look he put on the head-gear when

the barouche was announced at the door, and went forth into the glare

of publicity with a furtive sense of shame that flushed his cheek.

By splitting the top of his hack, Ferd Parrott, landlord of Smyrna

tavern, had produced a vehicle that somewhat resembled half a

watermelon. Ferd drove, adorned also with a plug hat from the stock

of the Honorable Percival.

Just inside the gate of the fair-grounds waited the Smyrna "Silver

Cornet Band." It struck up "Hail to the Chief," to the violent alarm

of the hack-horses.

"We're goin' to get run away with sure's you're above hatches!"

bellowed Cap'n Sproul, standing up and making ready to leap over the

edge of the watermelon. But Hiram Look restrained him, and the band,

its trombones splitting the atmosphere, led away with a merry march.

When they had circled the track, from the three-quarters pole to the

stand, and the crowd broke into plaudits, Cap'n Sproul felt a bit

more comfortable, and dared to straighten his neck and lift his

head-gear further into the sunshine.

He even forgot the hateful presence of his seat-mate, a huge dog that

Mr. Bickford had invited into the fourth place in the carriage.

"A very valuable animal, gentlemen," he said. "Intelligent as a man,

and my constant companion. To-day is the day of two of man's best

friends--the horse and the dog--and Hector will be in his element."

But Hector, wagging and slavering amiably about in the narrow

confines of the little stand to which they climbed, snapped the

Cap'n's leash of self-control ere five minutes passed.

"Say, Mr. Bickford," he growled, after one or two efforts to crowd

past the ubiquitous canine and get to the rail, "either me or your

dog is in the way here."

"Charge, Hector!" commanded Mr. Bickford, taking one eye from the

cheering multitude. The dog "clumped" down reluctantly.

"We might just as well get to an understandin'," said the Cap'n, not

yet placated. "I ain't used to a dog underfoot, I don't like a dog,

and I won't associate with a dog. Next thing I know I'll be makin'

a misstep onto him, and he'll have a hunk out of me."

"Why, my dear captain," oozed Hector's proprietor, "that dog is as

intelligent as a man, as mild as a kitten, and a very--"

"Don't care if he's writ a dictionary and nussed infants," cried the

Cap'n, slatting out his arm defiantly; "it's him or me, here; take

your choice!"

"I--I think your dog would be all right if you let him stay

down-stairs under the stand," ventured President Kitchen,

diplomatically.

"He's a valuable animal," demurred Mr. Bickford, "and--" He caught

the flaming eye of the Cap'n, and added: "But if you'll have a man

sit with him he may go.

"Now we'll settle down for a real nice afternoon," he went on,

conciliatingly. "Let's see: This here is the cord that I pull to

signal the horses to start, is it?"

"No, no!" expostulated President Kitchen, "you pull that bell-cord

to call them back if the field isn't bunched all right at the wire

when they score down for the word. If all the horses are in position

and are all leveled, you shout 'Go!' and start your watch."

"Precisely," said Mr. Bickford.

"It's the custom," went on the president, solicitous for the success

of his strange assortment of judges, yet with heart almost failing

him, "for each judge to have certain horses that he watches during

the mile for breaks or fouls. Then he places them as they come under

the wire. That is so one man won't have too much on his mind."

"Very, very nice!" murmured the Honorable J. Percival. "We are here

to enjoy the beautiful day and the music and the happy throngs, and

we don't want to be too much taken up with our duties." He pushed

himself well out into view over the rail, held his new gold watch

in one gloved hand, and tapped time to the band with the other.