t Mr. Gammon, and held his fist poised
in air.

"_Squawnk!_" repeated the plaintive voice outside.

Mr. Gammon had a head narrowed in the shape of an old-fashioned coffin,
and the impression it produced was fully as doleful. His neighbors
in that remote section of Smyrna known as "Purgatory," having the
saving grace of humor, called him "Cheerful Charles."

The glare in the Cap'n's eyes failed to dislodge him, and the Cap'n's
mind was just then too intent on a certain topic to admit even the
digression of ordering Mr. Gammon out.

"What in the name of Josephus Priest do I care what the public
demands?" he continued, shoving his face toward the lowering
countenance of Mr. Tate. "I've built our end of the road to the
town-line accordin' to the line of survey that's best for this town,
and now if Vienny ain't got a mind to finish their road to strike
the end of our'n, then let the both of 'em yaw apart and end in the
sheep-pastur'. The public ain't runnin' this. It's _me_--the first
selectman. You are takin' orders from _me_--and you want to
understand it. Don't you nor any one else move a shovelful of dirt
till I tell you to."

Hiram Look, retired showman and steady loafer in the selectman's
office, rolled his long cigar across his lips and grunted
indorsement.

"_Squawnk!_" The appeal outside was a bit more insistent.

Mr. Gammon sighed. Hiram glanced his way and noted that he had a noose
of clothes-line tied so tightly about his neck that his flabby dewlap
was pinched. He carried the rest of the line in a coil on his arm.

"Public says--" Mr. Tate began to growl.

"Well, what does public say?"

"Public that has to go around six miles by crossro'ds to git into
Vienny says that you wa'n't elected to be no crowned head nor no
Seizer of Rooshy!" Mr. Tate, stung by memories of the taunts flung
at him as surveyor, grew angry in his turn. "I live out there, and
I have to take the brunt of it. They think you and that old fool of
a Vienny selectman that's lettin' a personal row ball up the bus'ness
of two towns are both bedeviled."

"She's prob'ly got it over them, too," enigmatically observed Mr.
Gammon, in a voice as hollow as wind in a knot-hole.

This time the outside "_Squawnk_" was so imperious that Mr. Gammon
opened the door. In waddled the one who had been demanding
admittance.

"It's my tame garnder," said Mr. Gammon, apologetically. "He was
lonesome to be left outside."

A fuzzy little cur that had