ration, as custodian of the funds; but
participation, never!

During many hours of the day Mr. Tate did not write, but sat and gazed
at the cracked ceiling with a rapt expression that made the Cap'n
nervous. The Cap'n spoke of this to Hiram.

"That feller ain't right in his head," said the selectman. "He sets
there hours at a time, like a hen squattin' on duck-eggs, lookin'
up cross-eyed. I was through an insane horsepittle once, and they
had patients there just like that. I'd just as soon have a bullhead
snake in the room with me."

"He's gettin' up his pome, that's all," Hiram explained. "I've seen
lit'ry folks in my time. They act queer, but there ain't any harm
in 'em."

"That may be," allowed the Cap'n, "but I shall be almighty glad when
this centennial is over and I can get Pote Tate out of that corner,
and put the broom and poker back there, and have something sensible
to look at."

Preparations for the great event went on smartly. The various
societies and interests conferred amicably, and the whole centennial
day was blocked out, from the hundred guns at early dawn to the last
sputter of the fireworks at midnight. And everything and every one
called for money; money for prizes, for souvenirs for entertainment
of visitors, for bands, for carriages--a multitude of items, all to
be settled for when the great event was over. If Cap'n Sproul had
hoped to save a remnant of his treasure-fund he was soon undeceived.
Perspiring over his figures, he discovered that there wouldn't be
enough if all demands were met. But he continued grimly to apportion.

One day he woke the poet out of the trance into which he had fallen
after delivering to his chairman a great pile of sealed letters to
be counted for stamps.

"What do I understand by all these bushels of epistles to the
Galatians that you've been sluicin' out?" he demanded. "Who be they,
and what are you writin' to 'em for? I've been lookin' over the names
that you've backed on these envelopes, and there isn't one of 'em
I ever heard tell of, nor see the sense in writin' to."

Mr. Tate untangled his twisted legs and came over to the table,
quivering in his emotion.

"Never heard of them? Never heard of them?" he repeated, gulping his
amazement. He shuffled the letters to and fro, tapping his thin
finger on the superscriptions. "Oh, you must be joking, Captain
Sproul, dear sir! Never heard of the poets and orators and _savants_
whose names are written there? S