rly in October was
walking along the village street in keen search of news of politics. He
talked first to Pole, the butcher, who hearing that he was a cousin of
Mrs. Penhallow assured him that the town would go solid for Buchanan.
Then he met Billy, who was going a-fishing, having refused a wood-cutting
job the rector offered.

"A nice fishing-rod that," said Grey.

Billy who was bird-witted and short of memory replied, "Mrs. Penhallow
she gave me a dollar to pay pole-tax if I vote for--I guess it was
Buchanan. I bought a nice fishing-pole."

Grey was much amused and agreeably instructed in regard to Mrs. Ann's
sentiments, as he realized the simple fellow's mental condition. "A
fishing-pole-tax--well--well--" and would tell John of his joke. "Any
barber in this town?" he asked.

"Yes, there's Josiah," and Billy was no longer to be detained.

Mr. Grey mailed a letter, but the post-mistress would not talk politics
and was busy. At last, wandering eastward, he came upon the only
unoccupied person in Westways. Peter Lamb, slowly recovering strength,
was seated on his mother's doorstep. His search for money had been
defeated by the widow's caution, and the whisky craving was being felt
anew.

"Good morning," said Grey. "You seem to be the only man here with nothing
to do."

"Yes, sir. I've been sick, and am not quite fit to work. Sickness is hard
on a working man, sir."

Grey, a kindly person, put his hand in his pocket, "Quite right, it is
hard. How are the people here going to vote? I hope the good old ticket."

"Oh! Buchanan and Breckenridge, sir, except one or two and the darkey
barber. He's a runaway--I guess. Been here these three or four years.
Squire likes him because he's clever about breaking colts."

"Indeed!"

"He's a lazy nigger, sir; ought to be sent back where he belongs."

"What is his name? I suppose he can shave me."

"Calls himself Josiah," said Peter. "Mighty poor barber--cut my face last
time he shaved me. You see, he's lost two fingers--makes him awkwarder."

"What! what!" said Grey, of a sudden reflecting, "two fingers--"

"Know him?" said Lamb quickly.

"I--no--Do you suppose I know every runaway nigger?"

"Oh, of course not. Might I ask your name, sir?"

"I am a cousin of Mrs. Penhallow. My name is Grey." Peter became cautious
and silent. "Here is a little help, my man, until you get work. Stick to
the good old Party." He left two dollars in Lamb's eager hands.

Surprised at