one, troubled Poet Tate more than violence would have done. He took
himself and his portfolio away. As he licked his stamps in the
post-office he privately confided to the postmistress his conviction
that Cap'n Sproul was not exactly in his right mind at all times,
thus unconsciously reciprocating certain sentiments of his chairman
regarding the secretary's sanity.

"I don't think I'll go back to the office," said Mr. Tate. "I have
written all my letters. All those that come here in printed envelopes
for Captain Sproul I will take, as secretary."

At the end of another ten days, and on the eve of the centennial,
Mr. Tate had made an interesting discovery. It was to the effect that
although genius in the higher altitudes is not easily come at, and
responds by courteous declinations and regrets, genius in the lower
levels is still desirous of advertising and an opportunity to shine,
and can be cajoled by promise of refunded expenses and lavish
entertainment as guest of the municipality.

The last batch of letters of invitation, distributed among those
lower levels of notability, elicited the most interesting autograph
letters of all; eleven notables accepted the invitation to deliver
the oration of the day; a dozen or so announced that they would be
present and speak on topics connected with the times, and one and
all assured Captain Aaron Sproul that they thoroughly appreciated
his courtesy, and looked forward to a meeting with much pleasure,
and trusted, etc., etc.

Poet Tate, mild, diffident, unpractical Poet Tate, who in all his
life had never been called upon to face a crisis, did not face this
one.

The bare notion of going to Cap'n Aaron Sproul and confessing made
his brain reel. The memory of the look in the Cap'n's eyes, evoked
by so innocent a proposition as the reading of six thousand lines
of poetry to him, made Mr. Tate's fluttering heart bang against his
ribs. Even when he sat down to write a letter, making the confession,
his teeth chattered and his pen danced drunkenly. It made him so faint,
even to put the words on paper, that he flung his pen away.

A more resourceful man, a man with something in his head besides
dreams, might have headed off the notables. But in his panic Poet
Tate became merely a frightened child with the single impulse to flee
from the mischief he had caused. With his poem padding his thin chest,
he crept out of his father's house in the night preceding the great
day, and the