cuse nor
stamps for collecting autographs. He descended into the lower levels
of genius and fame. He wound up his campaign of solicitation with
a stack of letters that made the Cap'n gasp. But the chairman gave
out the stamps with a certain amount of savage satisfaction in doing
it, for some of the other hateful treasury-raiders would have to go
without, and he anticipated that Poet Tate, suggester of the piracy,
would meet up with proper retribution from his own ilk when the
committee in final round-up discovered how great an inroad the
autograph-seeker had made in the funds. The Cap'n had shrewd
fore-vision as to just how Smyrna would view the expenditure of money
in that direction.

For the first time, he gazed on his secretary with a sort of kindly
light in his eyes, realizing and relishing the part that Consetena
was playing. On his own part, Poet Tate welcomed this single gleam
of kindly feeling, as the Eskimo welcomes the first glimpse of the
vernal sun. He ran to his portfolio.

"I have it finished, Captain!" he cried. "It is the effort of my life.
To you I offer it first of all--you shall have the first bloom of
it. It begins"--he clutched the bulky manuscript in shaking
hands--"it begins:

"Ethereal Goddess, come, oh come, I pray,
And press thy fingers, on this festal day,
Upon my fevered brow and--"

"May I ask what you're settin' about to do, there?" inquired Cap'n
Sproul, balefully.

"It is my poem! I am about to read it to you, to offer it to you as
head of our municipality. I will read it to you."

The Cap'n waited for the explanation patiently. He seemed to want
to make sure of the intended enormity of the offence. He even
inquired: "How much do you reckon there is of it?"

"Six thousand lines," said Mr. Tate, with an author's pride.

"Pote Tate," he remarked, solemnly, "seein' that you haven't ever
been brought in very close touch with deep-water sailors, and don't
know what they've had to contend with, and how their dispositions
get warped, and not knowin' my private opinion of men-grown potes,
you've set here day by day and haven't realized the chances you've
been takin'. Just one ordinary back-handed wallop, such as would only
tickle a Portygee sailor, would mean wreaths and a harp for you! Thank
God, I haven't ever forgot myself, not yet. Lay that pome back, and
tie them covers together with a hard knot."

The Cap'n's ominous calm, his evident effort to repress even a loud
t