me he was settin' way down in front alongside of Alvy Hopkins's
gal, and when Airley hollered out she screeched and clutched on to Al,
and Al said somethin' he hadn't ought to and tore off one of them pink
gew-gaws she was covered with. He was the maddest man I ever see. Some
of the club was crowded inside, behind the seats, standin' up to see
the show. Al was so anxious to git through he hit Si Dudley in the
mouth--injured him some, I guess. Pity, wahn't it?"

"Si hain't in politics, you understand," said Mr. Bixby. "Callate Si
paid to git in there, didn't he, Peleg?"

"Callate he did," assented Senator Hartington.

A long and painful pause followed. There seemed, indeed, nothing more
to be said. The sound of applause floated out of the Opera House doors,
around which the remaining loiterers were clustered.

"Goin' in, be you, Peleg?" inquired Mr. Bixby.

Mr. Hartington shook his head.

"Will and me had a notion to see somethin' of the show," said Mr. Bixby,
almost apologetically. "I kep' my ticket."

"Well," said Mr. Hartington, reflectively, "I guess you'll find some of
the show left. That hain't b'en hurt much, so far as I can ascertain."

The next afternoon, when Mr. Isaac D. Worthington happened to be sitting
alone in the office of the Truro Railroad at the capital, there came a
knock at the door, and Mr. Bijah Bixby entered. Now, incredible as it
may seem, Mr. Worthington did not know Mr. Bixby--or rather, did not
remember him. Mr. Worthington had not had at that time much of an
experience in politics, and he did not possess a very good memory for
faces.

Mr. Bixby, who had, as we know, a confidential and winning manner,
seated himself in a chair very close to Mr. Worthington--somewhat to
that gentleman's alarm. "How be you?" said Bijah, "I-I've got a little
bill here--you understand."

Mr. Worthington didn't understand, and he drew his chair away from Mr.
Bixby's.

"I don't know anything about it, sir," answered the president of the
Truro Railroad, indignantly; "this is neither the manner nor the place
to present a bill. I don't want to see it."

Mr. Bixby moved his chair up again. "Callate you will want to see this
bill, Mr. Worthington," he insisted, not at all abashed. "Jethro Bass
sent it--you understand--it's engrossed."

Whereupon Mr. Bixby drew from his capacious pocket a roll, tied with
white ribbon, and pressed it into Mr. Worthington's hands. It was the
Truro Franchise Bill.

It is sa