ter-general the manner in which this office is run. Instead of
attending to your business, you make the place a resort for loafers and
idlers. Good morning, sir."

Ten minutes later Mr. Flint himself came to register the letter. But it
was done at the window, and the loafers and idlers were still there.

The curtain had risen again, indeed, and the action was soon fast enough
for the most impatient that day. No sooner had the town heard with bated
breath of the expulsion of the first citizen from the inner sanctuary of
the post-office, than the news of another event began to go the rounds.
Mr. Worthington had other and more important things to think about than
minor postmasters, and after his anger and--yes, and momentary fear
had subsided, he forgot the incident except to make a mental note
to remember to deprive Mr. Prescott of his postmastership, which he
believed could be done readily enough now that Jethro Bass was out of
the way. Then he had stepped into the bank, which he had come to regard
as his own bank, as he regarded most institutions in Brampton. He had,
in the old days, been president of it, as we know. He stepped into the
bank, and then--he stepped out again.

Most people have experienced that sickly feeling of the diaphragm which
sometimes comes from a sadden shock. Mr. Worthington had it now as he
hurried up the street, and he presently discovered that he was walking
in the direction opposite to that of his own home. He crossed the
street, made a pretence of going into Mr. Goldthwaite's drug store, and
hurried back again. When he reached his own library, he found Mr. Flint
busy there at his desk. Mr. Flint rose. Mr. Worthington sat down
and began to pull the papers about in a manner which betrayed to his
seneschal (who knew every mood of his master) mental perturbation.

"Flint," he said at last, striving his best for an indifferent accent,
"Jethro Bass is here--I ran across him just now drawing money in the
bank."

"I could have told you that this morning," answered Mr. Flint. "Wheeler,
who runs errands for him in Coniston, drove him in this morning, and
he's been with Peleg Hartington for two hours over Sherman's livery
stable."

An interval of silence followed, during which Mr. Worthington shuffled
with his letters and pretended to read them.

"Graves has called a mass meeting to-night, I understand," he remarked
in the same casual way. "The man's a demagogue, and mad as a loon. I
believe he