't goin' to
hear no nonsense about Doctor Prescott," he exclaimed. "I won't stan'
it from none of ye. I give ye fair warnin'. I don't eat no man's
flapjacks an' hear him talked agin within swing of my fists if I can
help it."

The storekeeper and postmaster, Cyrus Robinson, had been leaning over
his counter between the scales and a pile of yellow soap bars,
smiling and shrewdly observant. Now he spoke, and the savor of honey
for all was in his words.

"It's fust-rate of you, Jake, to stand up for the doctor," said he.
"We all of us feel all wrought up about poor Abel. I understand the
doctor's goin' to be easy with the widder about the mortgage. I
thought likely he would be. Sometimes folks do considerable more good
than they get credit for. I shouldn't be surprised if Doctor
Prescott's left hand an' his neighbors didn't know all he did."

Ozias Lamb turned slowly around and looked at the storekeeper.
"Doctor Prescott's a pretty good customer of yours, ain't he?" he
inquired.

There was a subdued titter. Cyrus Robinson colored, but kept his
pleasant smile. "Everybody in town is a good customer," said he. "I
haven't any bad customers."

"P'r'aps 'cause you won't trust 'em," said Ozias Lamb. This time the
titter was audible. Cyrus Robinson's business caution was well known.

The storekeeper said no more, turned abruptly, took a key from his
pocket, went to the little post-office in the corner, and locked the
door. Then he began putting up the window-shutters.

There was a stir among the company, a scraping of chairs and stools,
and a shuffling of heavy feet, and they went lingeringly out of the
store. Cyrus Robinson usually put up his shutters too early for them.
His store was more than a store--it was the nursery of the town, the
place where her little commonweal was evolved and nurtured, and it
was also her judgment-seat. There her simple citizens formed their
simple opinions upon town government and town officials, upon which
they afterwards acted in town meeting. There they sat in judgment
upon all men who were not within reach of their voices, and upon all
crying evils of the times which were too mighty for them to struggle
against. This great country store of Cyrus Robinson's--with its rank
odors of molasses and spices, whale oil, and West India rum; with its
counters, its floor, its very ceiling heaped and hung with all the
paraphernalia of a New England village; its clothes, its food, and
its working-ute