mself--of Fletcher,
inflammable as gunpowder.

"Gentlemen, I withdraw as your candidate, and nominate a better and an
abler man,--Jethro Bass."

"Jethro Bass for Chairman of the Selectmen!"

The cry is taken up all over the meeting-house, and rises high above the
hiss of the sleet on the great windows. Somebody's got on the stove, to
add to the confusion and horror. The only man in the whole place who is
not excited is Jethro Bass himself, who sits in his chair regardless of
those pressing around him. Many years afterward he confessed to some one
that he was surprised--and this is true. Fletcher Bartlett had surprised
and tricked him, but was forgiven. Forty men are howling at the
moderator, who is pounding on the table with a blacksmith's blows. Squire
Asa Northcutt, with his arms fanning like a windmill from the edge of the
platform, at length shouts down everybody else--down to a hum. Some
listen to him: hear the words "infamous outrage"--"if Jethro Bass is
elected Selectman, Coniston will never be able to hold up her head among
her sister towns for very shame." (Momentary blank, for somebody has got
on the stove again, a scuffle going on there.) "I see it all now," says
the Squire--(marvel of perspicacity!) "Jethro Bass has debased and
debauched this town--" (blank again, and the squire points a finger of
rage and scorn at the unmoved offender in the chair) "he has bought and
intimidated men to do his bidding. He has sinned against heaven, and
against the spirit of that most immortal of documents--" (Blank again.
Most unfortunate blank, for this is becoming oratory, but somebody from
below has seized the squire by the leg.) Squire Northcutt is too
dignified and elderly a person to descend to rough and tumble, but he did
get his leg liberated and kicked Fletcher Bartlett in the face. Oh,
Coniston, that such scenes should take place in your town meeting! By
this time another is orating, Mr. Sam Price, Jackson Democrat. There was
no shorthand reporter in Coniston in those days, and it is just as well,
perhaps, that the accusations and recriminations should sink into
oblivion.

At last, by mighty efforts of the peace loving in both parties, something
like order is restored, the ballots are in the box, and Deacon Lysander
is counting them: not like another moderator I have heard of, who spilled
the votes on the floor until his own man was elected. No. Had they
registered his own death sentence, the deacon would have