tly, all the folks of Smyrna rose
to the occasion with a long, loud shout for the celebration--and
suggested that the "surplus" be expended in making a holiday that
would be worth waiting one hundred years for.

After that shout, and as soon as he got his breath, the voice of First
Selectman Aaron Sproul was heard. He could not make as much noise
as the others, but the profusion of expletives with which he
garnished his declaration that the town's money should not be spent
that way made his talk well worth listening to.

It was then that the bear-baiting began.

Every society, every church, every organization in town got after
him, and Hiram Look--a betrayal of long friendship that touched the
Cap'n's red anger into white heat--captained the whole attack.

The final clinch was in the town office, the Cap'n at bay like the
boar in its last stronghold, face livid and hairy fists flailing the
scattered papers of his big table. But across the table was Hiram
Look, just as intense, the unterrified representative of the
proletariat, his finger jabbing the air.

"That money was paid into the treasury o' this town by the voters,"
he shouted, "and, by the Sussanified heifer o' Nicodemus, it can be
spent by 'em! You're talkin' as though it was your own private
bank-account."

"I want you to understand," the Cap'n shouted back with just as much
vigor--"it ain't any jack-pot, nor table-stakes, nor prize put up
for a raffle. It's town money, and I'm runnin' this town."

"Do you think you're an Emp'ror Nero?" inquired Hiram, sarcastically.
"And even that old cuss wa'n't so skin-tight as you be. He provided
sports for the people, and it helped him hold his job. Hist'ry tells
you so."

"There ain't any hist'ry about this," the selectman retorted with
emphasis. "It's here, now, present, and up to date. And I can give
you the future if you want any predictions. That money ain't goin'
to be throwed down a rat-hole in any such way."

"Look here, Cap'n Sproul," said the showman, grinding his words
between his teeth, "you've been talkin' for a year past that they'd
pushed this job of selectman onto you, and that you didn't propose
to hold it."

"Mebbe I did," agreed the Cap'n. "Most like I did, for that's the
way I feel about it."

"Then s'pose you resign and let me take the job and run it the way
it ought to be run?"

"How would that be--a circus every week-day and a sacred concert
Sundays? Judging from your past life and y