and had come in. He wore a frock coat and shiny silk hat, and inquired
whether he had the pleasure of speaking to Captain Aaron Sproul,
first selectman of Smyrna.
"I'm him," said the Cap'n, glowering up from under knotted eyebrows,
his gaze principally on the shiny tile.
"I was just a little surprised that there was no committee of
reception at the station to meet me," said the stranger, in mild
rebuke. "There was not even a carriage there. But I suppose it was
an oversight, due to the rush of affairs to-day."
The Cap'n still scowled at him, not in the least understanding why
this stranger should expect to be carted into the village from the
railroad.
"I will introduce myself. I am Professor William Wilson Waverley,
orator of the day; I have had some very pleasant correspondence with
you, Captain Sproul, and I'm truly glad to meet you face to face."
"You've got the advantage of me," blurted the Cap'n, still dense.
"I never heard of you before in my life, nor I never wrote you any
letter, unless I got up in my sleep and done it."
With wonderment and some irritation growing on his face, the stranger
pulled out a letter and laid it before the Cap'n.
The selectman studied it long enough to see that it was an earnest
invitation to honor the town of Smyrna with a centennial oration,
and that the town would pay all expenses; and the letter was signed,
"Captain Aaron Sproul, First Selectman and Chairman of Committee,
Per Consetena Tate, Secretary."
"I never saw that before," insisted the Cap'n.
"Do you mean that you disown it?"
"No, I reckon it's all official and regular. What I just said about
not havin' seen it before might have sounded a little queer, but
there's an explanation goes with it. You see, it's been this way.
I--"
But at that moment fully a score of men filed into the office, all
of them with set faces and indignant demeanors. The Cap'n was not
well posted on the breed of literati, but with half an eye he noted
that these were not the ordinary sort of men. There were more silk
hats, there were broad-brimmed hats, there was scrupulousness in
attire, there was the disarray of Bohemianism. And it was plainly
evident that these later arrivals had had word of conference with
each other. Each held a "Per Consetena Tate" letter in his hand.
"I have met with some amazing situations in my time--in real life
and in romance," stated a hard-faced man who had evidently been
selected as spokesman. "But this seems so supremely without parallel
that I am almost robbed of expression. Here are ten of us, each having
the same identical letter of invitation to deliver the oration of
the day here on this occasion."
"Ten, did you say? Eleven," said the first-comer. "Here is my
letter."
"And the others have invitations to deliver discourses," went on the
spokesman, severely. "As your name is signed to all these letters,
Captain Aaron Sproul, first selectman of Smyrna, perhaps you will
deign to explain to us what it all means."
Cap'n Sproul arose and then sat down; arose and sat down again. He
tried to speak, but only a husky croak came forth. Something seemed
to have crawled into his throat--something fuzzy and filling, that
would not allow language to pass.
"Here are more than twenty prominent men, seduced from their manifold
duties, called away up here to satisfy the rural idea of a joke--or,
at least, I can see no other explanation," proceeded the hard-faced
man. "It might be remarked in passing that the joke will be an
expensive one for this town. Eleven distinguished men called here
to deliver one oration in a one-horse town!"
The Cap'n did not like the bitter irony of his tone, and recovered
his voice enough to say,
"You might cut the cards or spit at a crack, gents, to see which one
does deliver the oration." But the pleasantry did not evoke any smile
from that disgusted assemblage.
"It is safe to say that after this hideous insult not one of us will
speak," declared one of the group. "But I for one would like some
light on the insane freak that prompted this performance. As you are
at the head of this peculiar community, we'd like you to speak for
it."
Somewhat to his own surprise, Cap'n Sproul did not find in himself
any especially bitter animosity toward Mr. Tate, just then, search
his soul as he might.
These "lit'ry fellows," cajoled by one of their own ilk into this
unspeakable muddle, were, after all, he reflected, of the sort he
had scorned with all his sailor repugnance to airs and pretensions.
Cap'n Sproul possessed a peculiarly grim sense of humor. This
indignant assemblage appealed to that sense.
"Gents," he said, standing up and propping himself on the table by
his knuckles, "there are things in this world that are deep mysteries.
Of course, men like you reckon you know most everything there is to
be known. But you see that on the bottom of each letter you have,
there are the words: 'Per Consetena Tate.' There's where the mystery
is in this case."
"I imagine it isn't so deep a mystery but that we can understand it
if you will explain," said the spokesman, coldly.
"There's where you are mistaken," declared the Cap'n. "It would take
a long time to tell you the inside of this thing, and even then you
wouldn't know which, what, or whuther about it." In his heart Cap'n
Sproul was resolved that he would not own up to these strangers the
part his own negligence had played. He reflected for his consolation
that he had not projected the centennial celebration of Smyrna. It
occurred to him with illuminating force that he had pledged himself
to only one thing: to pay the bills of the celebration as fast as
they were presented to him. Consetena Tate was the secretary the town
had foisted on his committee. Consetena Tate had made definite
contracts. His lips twisted into a queer smile under his beard.
"Gents," he said, "there isn't any mystery about them contracts,
however. This town pays its bills. You say no one of you wants to
orate? That is entirely satisfactory to me--for I ain't runnin' that
part. I'm here to pay bills. Each one of you make out his bill and
receipt it. Then come with me to the town treasurer's office."
The tumultuous throngs that spied Cap'n Sproul leading that file of
distinguished men to Broadway's store--Broadway being treasurer of
Smyrna--merely gazed with a flicker of curiosity and turned again
to their sports, little realizing just what effect that file of men
was to have on the financial sinews of those sports. Cap'n Sproul
scarcely realized it himself until all the returns were in. He simply
hoped, that's all! And his hopes were more than justified.
"My Gawd, Cap'n," gasped Odbar Broadway when the notables had
received their money and had filed out, "what does this mean? There
ain't more'n a hundred dollars left of the surplus fund, and there
ain't any of the prizes and appropriations paid yet! Who be them
plug-hatters from all over God's creation, chalkin' up railroad
fares agin us like we had a machine to print money in this town?"
"Them vouchers is all right, ain't they?" demanded the Cap'n. "Them
vouchers with letters attached?"
"Yes, they be," faltered the treasurer.
"So fur as who strangers may be, you can ask Pote Consetena Tate,
secretary, about that. They're lit'ry gents, and he's done all the
official business with them."
Broadway stared at him, and then began to make some hasty figures.
"See here, Cap'n," he said, plaintively, "there's just about enough
of that fund left to settle the committee bill here at my store. Have
I got to share pro raty?"
"Pay yourself and clean it out. I'll countersign your bill," declared
the chairman, cheerfully. "If there ain't any fund, I can go home.
I'm infernal sick of this hellitywhoop noise."
And he trudged back up the hill to the quietude of his farm, with
deep content.
He had been some hours asleep that night when vigorous poundings on
his door awoke him, and when at last he appeared on his piazza he
found a large and anxious delegation of citizens filling his yard.
"Cap'n," bleated one of the committee, "Broadway says there ain't
any money to pay prizes with."
"Vouchers is all right. Money paid on contracts signed by your
official secretary, that you elected unanimous," said the Cap'n,
stoutly.
"We know it," cried the committeeman, "but we don't understand it."
"Then hunt up the man that made the contracts--Pote Tate," advised
the selectman. "All the business I've done was to pay out the money.
You know what stand I've took right along."
"We know it, Cap'n, and we ain't blamin' you--but we don't understand,
and we can't find Consetena Tate. His folks don't know where he is.
He's run away."
"Potes are queer critters," sighed the Cap'n, compassionately. He
turned to go in.
"But how are we goin' to get the money to pay up for the sports, the
fireworks, and things?"
"Them that hires fiddlers and dances all day and night must expect
to pay said fiddlers," announced the Cap'n, oracularly. "I reckon
you'll have to pass the hat for the fiddlers."
"If that's the case," called the committeeman, heart-brokenly,
"won't you put your name down for a little?"
"Since I've had the rheumatiz I ain't been any hand at all to dance,"
remarked the Cap'n, gently, through the crack of the closing door.
And they knew what he meant, and went away down the hill, as sober
as the cricket when he was departing from the door of the thrifty
ant.