XXXI

For some weeks the town of Smyrna had been witnessing something very

like a bear-baiting.

Cap'n Aaron Sproul, first selectman, again played the role of the

bear, as he had on occasions previous.

They had stalked him; they had flanked him; they had surrounded him;

they had driven him to centre; he was at bay, bristling with a sullen

rage that was excusable, if viewed from the standpoint of an earnest

town officer. Viewed from the standpoint of the populace, he was a

selfish, cross-grained old obstructionist.

Here was the situation: By thrift and shrewd management he had

accumulated during his reign nearly enough funds to pay off the town

debt and retire interest-bearing notes. He had proposed to make that

feat the boast and the crowning point of his tenure of office. He

had announced that on a certain day he would have a bonfire of those

notes in the village square. After that announcement he had listened

for plaudits. What he did hear were resentful growls from taxpayers

who now discovered that they had been assessed more than the running

expenses of the town called for; and they were mad about it. The

existence of that surplus seemed to worry Smyrna. There were many

holders of town notes for small amounts, a safe investment that paid

six per cent. and escaped taxation. These people didn't want to be

paid. In many cases their fathers had loaned the money to the town,

and the safe and sound six per cent. seemed an heirloom too sacred

to be disturbed.

Cap'n Sproul's too-zealous thrift annoyed his townsmen. To have the

town owe money made individual debtors feel that owing money was not

a particularly heinous offence. To have the town free of debt might

start too enterprising rivalry in liquidation.

Therefore, for the first time in his life, Consetena Tate found one

of his wild notions adopted, and gasped in profound astonishment at

the alacrity of his townsmen. Consetena Tate had unwittingly

stumbled upon a solution of that "surplus" difficulty. He wasn't

thinking of the surplus. He was too utterly impractical for that.

He was a tall, gangling, effeminate, romantic, middle-aged man whom

his parents still supported and viewed with deference as a superior

personality. He was Smyrna's only literary character.

He made golden weddings gay with lengthy epics that detailed the

lives of the celebrants; he brought the dubious cheer of his verses

to house-warmings, church sociables, and other occasions when Smyrna

found itself in gregarious mood; he soothed the feelings of mourners

by obituary lines that appeared in print in the county paper when

the mourners ordered enough extra copies to make it worth the

editor's while. Added to this literary gift was an artistic one.

Consetena had painted half a dozen pictures that were displayed every

year at the annual show of the Smyrna Agricultural Fair and Gents'

Driving Association; therefore, admiring relatives accepted Mr.

Tate as a genius, and treated him as such with the confident

prediction that some day the outside world would know him and

appreciate him.

A flicker of this coming fame seemed to dance on Consetena's polished

brow when he wrote a piece for the county paper, heralding the fact

that Smyrna was one hundred years old that year.

Mr. Tate, having plenty of leisure to meditate on those matters, had

thought of this fact before any one else in town remembered it. He

wrote another article urging that the town fittingly celebrate the

event. The Women's Temperance Workers discussed the matter and

concurred. It would give them an opportunity to have a tent-sale of

food and fancy-work, and clear an honest penny.

The three churches in town came into the project heartily. They would

"dinner" hungry strangers in the vestries, and also turn an honest

penny. The Smyrna Ancient and Honorable Firemen's Association, Hiram

Look foreman, was very enthusiastic. A celebration would afford

opportunity to parade and hold a muster.

The three uniformed secret societies in town, having an ever-lurking

zest for public exhibition behind a brass-band, canvassed the

prospect delightedly. The trustees of the Agricultural Fair and

Gents' Driving Association could see a most admirable opening for

a June horse-trot.

In fact, with those inducements and with motives regarding the

"surplus" spurring them on secretly, all the folks of Smyrna rose

to the occasion with a long, loud shout for the celebration--and

suggested that the "surplus" be expended in making a holiday that

would be worth waiting one hundred years for.

After that shout, and as soon as he got his breath, the voice of First

Selectman Aaron Sproul was heard. He could not make as much noise

as the others, but the profusion of expletives with which he

garnished his declaration that the town's money should not be spent

that way made his talk well worth listening to.

It was then that the bear-baiting began.

Every society, every church, every organization in town got after

him, and Hiram Look--a betrayal of long friendship that touched the

Cap'n's red anger into white heat--captained the whole attack.

The final clinch was in the town office, the Cap'n at bay like the

boar in its last stronghold, face livid and hairy fists flailing the

scattered papers of his big table. But across the table was Hiram

Look, just as intense, the unterrified representative of the

proletariat, his finger jabbing the air.

"That money was paid into the treasury o' this town by the voters,"

he shouted, "and, by the Sussanified heifer o' Nicodemus, it can be

spent by 'em! You're talkin' as though it was your own private

bank-account."

"I want you to understand," the Cap'n shouted back with just as much

vigor--"it ain't any jack-pot, nor table-stakes, nor prize put up

for a raffle. It's town money, and I'm runnin' this town."

"Do you think you're an Emp'ror Nero?" inquired Hiram, sarcastically.

"And even that old cuss wa'n't so skin-tight as you be. He provided

sports for the people, and it helped him hold his job. Hist'ry tells

you so."

"There ain't any hist'ry about this," the selectman retorted with

emphasis. "It's here, now, present, and up to date. And I can give

you the future if you want any predictions. That money ain't goin'

to be throwed down a rat-hole in any such way."

"Look here, Cap'n Sproul," said the showman, grinding his words

between his teeth, "you've been talkin' for a year past that they'd

pushed this job of selectman onto you, and that you didn't propose

to hold it."

"Mebbe I did," agreed the Cap'n. "Most like I did, for that's the

way I feel about it."

"Then s'pose you resign and let me take the job and run it the way

it ought to be run?"

"How would that be--a circus every week-day and a sacred concert

Sundays? Judging from your past life and your present talk I don't

reckon you'd know how to run anything any different!" This taunt as

to his life-work in the show business and his capability stirred all

of Hiram's venom.

"I've come here to tell ye," he raged, "that the citizens of this

town to a man want ye to resign as first selectman, and let some one

in that don't wear brustles and stand with both feet in the trough."

"That's just the reason I won't resign--because they want me to,"

returned the Cap'n with calm decisiveness. "They got behind me when

I wasn't lookin', and picked me up and rammed me into this office,

and I've been wantin' to get out ever since. But I'll be cussed if

I'll get out, now that they're tryin' to drive me out. I'm interested

enough now to stay."

"Say, did you ever try to drive a hog?" demanded the irate old

circus-man.

"Yes," said the Cap'n, imperturbably, "I'm tryin' it now--tryin' to

drive a whole litter of 'em away from the trough where they want to

eat up at one meal what it's taken me a whole year to scrape together."

Persiflage of this sort did not appear to be accomplishing anything.

Hiram relieved his feelings by a smacking, round oath and stamped

out of the town-house.

As they had done once before in the annals of his office, the other

two selectmen made a party with Sproul's opposers. They signed a call

for a special town-meeting. It was held, and an uproarious

_viva-voce_ vote settled the fate of the surplus. In the rush of

popular excitement the voters did not stop to reflect on the legal

aspects of the question. Law would not have sanctioned such a

disposal of town money, even with such an overwhelming majority

behind the movement. But Cap'n Sproul still held to his ancient and

ingrained fear of lawyers. He remained away from the meeting and let

matters take their course.

Hiram, still captain of the revolutionists, felt his heart grow

softer in victory. Furthermore, Cap'n Sproul, left outside the pale,

might conquer dislike of law and invoke an injunction.

The next morning, bright and early, he trudged over to the first

selectman's house and bearded the sullen autocrat in his

sitting-room. He felt that the peace of the Cap'n's home was better

suited to be the setting of overtures of friendship than the angular

interior of the town office.

"Cap," he said, appealingly, "they've gone and done it, and all the

sentiment of the town is one way in the matter. What's the use of

buckin' your own people as you are doin'? Get onto the band-wagon

along with the rest of us. It's goin' to be a good thing for the town.

It will bring a lot of spenders in here that day. They'll leave money

here. It will be a good time all 'round. It will give the town a good

name. Now, that money is goin' to be spent! I've made you chairman

of the whole general committee--as first selectman. You'll have the

principal say as to how the money is goin' to be spent. As long's

it's goin' to be spent that ought to be some satisfaction to you."

"You take that money--you and your gang of black-flaggers that has

captured this town on the high seas--and you rub it onto your

carkisses where it will do the most good," snorted the Cap'n. "Light

cigars with it--feed it to your elephant--send it up in a balloon--I

don't give a kihooted dam what you do with it. But don't you try to

enlist me under the skull and cross-bones!"

After this unpromising fashion did the conference begin. It was in

progress at noon--and Hiram remained to dinner. Breaking bread with

a friend has a consolatory effect--that cannot be denied. When they

were smoking after dinner, the first selectman grudgingly consented

to take charge of spending the money. He agreed finally with Hiram

that with him--the Cap'n--on the safety-valve, mere wasteful

folderols might be avoided--and the first selectman had seen enough

of the temper of his constituents to fear for consequences should

they get their hands into the treasury when he was not standing by.

"Now," said Hiram, in conclusion, "the committee is well organized.

There's a representative from each of the societies in town to act

with you and advise."

"I'd ruther try to steer a raft of lashed hen-coops from here to Bonis

Airs and back, under a barkentine rig," snapped the Cap'n. "I know

the kind o' critters they be. We won't get nowhere!"

"I had to put 'em onto the committee," apologized the people's

representative. "But, you see, you and the secretary will do

practically all the work. All you've got to do is just to make 'em

think they're workin'. But you and the secretary will be the whole

thing."

"Who is this secretary that I've got to chum with?" demanded the Cap'n,

suspiciously.

"You see"--Hiram choked and blinked his eyes, and looked away as he

explained--"it sort of had to be done, to please the people, because

he's the feller that thought it up--and he's the only lit'ry chap

we've got in town, and he--"

Cap'n Sproul got up and held his pipe away from his face so that no

smoke-cloud could intervene.

"Do you mean to tell me," he raved, "that you've gone to work and

pinned me into the same yoke with that long-legged cross between a

blue heron and a monkey-wrench that started this whole infernal

treasury steal?"

"Consetena--" began Hiram.

The Cap'n dashed his clay pipe upon the brick hearth and ground the

bits under his heel.

"I ain't any hand to make love to Portygee sailors," he cried; "I

don't believe I could stand it to hold one on my knee more'n half

an hour at a time. I don't like a dude. I hate a land-pirut lawyer.

But a critter I've al'ays reckoned I'd kill on sight is a grown man

that writes portry and lets his folks support him. I've heard of that

Concert--whatever his name is--Tate. I ain't ever wanted to see him.

I've been afraid of what might happen if I did. Him and me run this

thing together? Say, look here, Hiram! You say a few more things like

that to me and I shall reckon you're tryin' to give me apoplexy and

get rid of me that way!"

Hiram sighed. His car of hopes so laboriously warped to the top summit

of success had been sluiced to the bottom. But he understood the

temper of the populace of Smyrna in those piping days better than

Cap'n Sproul did. Consetena Tate was not to be put aside with a wave

of the hand.

Hiram began again. At first he talked to deaf ears. He even had to

drown out contumely. But his arguments were good! Consetena Tate

could write the many letters that would be necessary. There were many

organizations to invite to town, many prominent citizens of the

county to solicit, for the day would not shine without the presence

of notables. There was all the work of that sort to be done with the

delicate touch of the literary man--work that the Cap'n could not

do. Mr. Tate had earned the position--at least the folks in town

thought he had--and demanded him as the man through whom they could

accomplish all epistolary effects.

In the end Hiram won the Cap'n over even to this concession. The Cap'n

was too weary to struggle farther against what seemed to be his horrid

destiny.

"I'll have him at town office to-morrow mornin'," declared Hiram,

grabbing at the first growl that signified submission. "You'll find

him meek and humble and helpful--I know you will." Then he promptly

hurried away before the Cap'n revived enough to change his mind.

Cap'n Sproul found his new secretary on the steps of the town office

the next morning, and scowled on him. Mr. Tate wore a little black

hat cocked on his shaggy mane, and his thin nose was blue in the crisp

air of early May. He sat on the steps propping a big portfolio on

his knees. His thin legs outlined themselves against his baggy

trousers with the effect of broomsticks under cloth.

He arose and followed the sturdy old seaman into the office. He sat

down, still clinging to the portfolio, and watched the Cap'n build

a fire in the rusty stove. The selectman had returned no answer to

the feeble attempts that Mr. Tate had made to open conversation.

"Far asunder your life aims and my life aims have been, Cap'n Sproul,"

observed the secretary at last. "But when ships hail each other out

of the darkness--"

"Three-stickers don't usually luff very long when they're hailed by

punts," grunted the old skipper.

"There is a common ground on which all may meet," insisted Mr. Tate;

"I frequently inaugurate profitable conversations and lay the

foundations of new friendships this way: Who are your favorite

poets?"

"Say, now, look here!" blurted the Cap'n, coming away from the stove

and dusting his hard hands together; "you've been rammed into my

throat, and I'm havin' pretty blamed hard work to swallow you. I may

be able to do it if you don't daub on portry. Now, if you've got any

idea what you're here for and what you're goin' to do, you get at

it. Do you know?"

"I had ventured upon a little plan," said Mr. Tate, meekly. "I thought

that first of all I would arrange the literary programme for the day,

the oration, the poem, the various addresses, and I already have a

little schedule to submit to you. I have a particular request to make,

Cap'n Sproul. I wish that you, as chairman of the committee, would

designate me as poet-laureate of the grand occasion."

"You can be any kind of a pote you want to," said the selectman,

promptly. "And I'll tell you right here and now, I don't give a

continental thunderation about your programmy or your speech-makers--not

even if you go dig up old Dan'l Webster and set him on the stand. I

didn't start this thing, and I ain't approvin' of it. I'm simply

grabbin' in on it so that I can make sure that the fools of this town

won't hook into that money with both hands and strew it galley-west.

That's me! Now, if you've got business, then 'tend to it! And I'll be

'tendin' to mine!"

It was not an encouraging prospect for a secretary who desired to

be humble and helpful. Cap'n Sproul busied himself with a little pile

of smudgy account-books, each representing a road district of the

town. He was adding "snow-bills." Mr. Tate gazed forlornly on the

fiercely puckered brow and "plipping" lips, and heard the low growl

of profanity as the Cap'n missed count on a column and had to start

over again. Then Mr. Tate sighed and opened his portfolio. He sat

staring above it at the iron visage of the first selectman, who

finally grew restive under this espionage.

"Say, look-a-here, Pote Tate," he growled, levelling flaming eyes

across the table, "if you think you're goin' to set there lookin'

at me like a Chessy cat watchin' a rat-hole, you and me is goin' to

have trouble, and have it sudden and have it vi'lent!"

"I wanted to ask you a question--some advice!" gasped the secretary.

"Haven't I told you to pick out your business and 'tend to it?"

demanded the Cap'n, vibrating his lead-pencil.

"But this is about spending some money."

"Well, mebbe that's diff'runt." The selectman modified his tone. "Go

ahead and stick in your paw! What's this first grab for?" he asked,

resignedly.

"To make my letters official and regular," explained Mr. Tate, "I've

got to have stationery printed with the names of the committee on

it--you as chairman, per Consetena Tate, secretary."

"Go across to the printin'-office and have some struck off," directed

the selectman. "If havin' some paper to write on will get you busy

enough so't you won't set there starin' me out of countenance, it

will be a good investment."

For the next few days Mr. Tate was quite successful in keeping himself

out from under foot, so the Cap'n grudgingly admitted to Hiram. He

found a little stand in a corner of the big room and doubled himself

over it, writing letters with patient care. The first ones he

ventured to submit to the Cap'n before sealing them. But the chairman

of the committee contemptuously refused to read them or to sign.

Therefore Mr. Tate did that service for his superior, signing:

"Capt. Aaron Sproul, Chairman. Per Consetena Tate, Secretary." He

piled the letters, sealed, before the Cap'n, and the latter counted

them carefully and issued stamps with scrupulous exactness. Replies

came in printed return envelopes; but, though they bore his name,

Cap'n Sproul scornfully refused to touch one of them. The stern

attitude that he had assumed toward the Smyrna centennial

celebration was this: Toleration, as custodian of the funds; but

participation, never!

During many hours of the day Mr. Tate did not write, but sat and gazed

at the cracked ceiling with a rapt expression that made the Cap'n

nervous. The Cap'n spoke of this to Hiram.

"That feller ain't right in his head," said the selectman. "He sets

there hours at a time, like a hen squattin' on duck-eggs, lookin'

up cross-eyed. I was through an insane horsepittle once, and they

had patients there just like that. I'd just as soon have a bullhead

snake in the room with me."

"He's gettin' up his pome, that's all," Hiram explained. "I've seen

lit'ry folks in my time. They act queer, but there ain't any harm

in 'em."

"That may be," allowed the Cap'n, "but I shall be almighty glad when

this centennial is over and I can get Pote Tate out of that corner,

and put the broom and poker back there, and have something sensible

to look at."

Preparations for the great event went on smartly. The various

societies and interests conferred amicably, and the whole centennial

day was blocked out, from the hundred guns at early dawn to the last

sputter of the fireworks at midnight. And everything and every one

called for money; money for prizes, for souvenirs for entertainment

of visitors, for bands, for carriages--a multitude of items, all to

be settled for when the great event was over. If Cap'n Sproul had

hoped to save a remnant of his treasure-fund he was soon undeceived.

Perspiring over his figures, he discovered that there wouldn't be

enough if all demands were met. But he continued grimly to apportion.

One day he woke the poet out of the trance into which he had fallen

after delivering to his chairman a great pile of sealed letters to

be counted for stamps.

"What do I understand by all these bushels of epistles to the

Galatians that you've been sluicin' out?" he demanded. "Who be they,

and what are you writin' to 'em for? I've been lookin' over the names

that you've backed on these envelopes, and there isn't one of 'em

I ever heard tell of, nor see the sense in writin' to."

Mr. Tate untangled his twisted legs and came over to the table,

quivering in his emotion.

"Never heard of them? Never heard of them?" he repeated, gulping his

amazement. He shuffled the letters to and fro, tapping his thin

finger on the superscriptions. "Oh, you must be joking, Captain

Sproul, dear sir! Never heard of the poets and orators and _savants_

whose names are written there? Surely, 'tis a joke."

"I ain't feelin' in no very great humorous state of mind these days,"

returned the Cap'n with vigor. "If you see any joke in what I'm sayin'

you'd better not laugh. I tell ye, I never heard of 'em! Now you answer

my question."

"Why, they are great poets, authors, orators--the great minds of the

country. They--"

"Well, they ain't all mind, be they? They're hearty eaters, ain't

they? They'll want three square meals when they get here, won't they?

What I want to know now is, how many thousands of them blasted

grasshoppers you've gone to work and managed to tole in here to be

fed? I'm just wakin' up to the resks we're runnin', and it makes me

sweat cold water." He glanced apprehensively at the papers bearing

his computations.

"All the replies I have received so far have been regrets," murmured

Mr. Tate, sorrowfully. "I took the greatest names first. I was

ambitious for our dear town, Captain. I went directly to the highest

founts. Perhaps I looked too high. They have all sent regrets. I have

to confess that I have not yet secured the orator of the day nor any

of the other speakers. But I was ambitious to get the best."

"Well, that's the first good news I've heard since we started on this

lunatic fandango," said the Cap'n, with soulful thanksgiving. "Do

you think there's any in this last mess that 'll be li'ble to come

if they're asked?"

"I have been gradually working down the scale of greatness, but I'm

afraid I have still aimed too high," confessed Mr. Tate. "Yet the

effort is not lost by any means." His eyes kindled. "All my life,

Captain Sproul, I have been eager for the autographs of great

men--that I might gaze upon the spot of paper where their mighty hands

have rested to write. I have succeeded beyond my fondest dreams. I

have a collection of autograph letters that make my heart swell with

pride."

"So that's how you've been spendin' the money of this town--writin'

to folks that you knew wouldn't come, so as to get their autographs?"

He touched the point better than he realized. Poet Tate's face grew

paler. After his first batch of letters had brought those returns

from the regretful great he had been recklessly scattering

invitations from the Atlantic to the Pacific--appealing invitations

done in his best style, and sanctioned by the aegis of a committee

headed by "Captain Sproul, Chairman." Such unbroken array of

declinations heartened him in his quest, and he was reaping his

halcyon harvest as rapidly as he could.

"I was going to put them on exhibition at the centennial, and make

them the great feature of the day," mumbled the poet, apologetically.

"So do! So do!" advised the Cap'n with bitter irony. "I can see a

ramjam rush of the people away from the tub-squirt, right in the

middle of it, to look at them autographs. I can see 'em askin' the

band to stop playin' so that they can stand and meditate on them

letters. It'll bust up the hoss-trot. Folks won't want to get away

from them letters long enough to go down to the track. I wish I'd

'a' knowed this sooner, Pote Tate. Take them letters and your pome,

and we wouldn't need to be spendin' money and foolin' it away on the

other kind of a programmy we've got up! Them Merino rams from Vienny,

Canaan, and surroundin' towns that 'll come in here full of hell and

hard cider will jest love to set down with you and study autographs

all day!"

Mr. Tate flushed under the satire by which the Cap'n was expressing

his general disgust at Smyrna's expensive attempt to celebrate. He

exhibited a bit of spirit for the first time in their intercourse.

"The literary exercises ought to be the grand feature of the day,

sir! Can a horse-trot or a firemen's muster call attention to the

progress of a hundred years? I fear Smyrna is forgetting the main

point of the celebration."

"Don't you worry any about that, Pote," snapped the selectman. "No

one round here is losin' sight of the main point. Main point is for

churches and temperance workers and wimmen's auxiliaries to sell as

much grub as they can to visitors, and for citizens to parade round

behind a brass-band like mules with the spring-halt, and to spend

the money that I had ready to clear off the town debt. And if any

one thinks about the town bein' a hundred years old, it'll be next

mornin' when he wakes up and feels that way himself. You and me is

the losin' minority this time, Pote. I didn't want it at all, and

you want it something diff'runt." He looked the gaunt figure up and

down with a little of the sympathy that one feels for a fellow-victim.

Then he gave out stamps for the letters. "As long as it's got to be

spent, this is about the innocentest way of spendin' it," he

muttered.