o this
unspeakable muddle, were, after all, he reflected, of the sort he
had scorned with all his sailor repugnance to airs and pretensions.
Cap'n Sproul possessed a peculiarly grim sense of humor. This
indignant assemblage appealed to that sense.

"Gents," he said, standing up and propping himself on the table by
his knuckles, "there are things in this world that are deep mysteries.
Of course, men like you reckon you know most everything there is to
be known. But you see that on the bottom of each letter you have,
there are the words: 'Per Consetena Tate.' There's where the mystery
is in this case."

"I imagine it isn't so deep a mystery but that we can understand it
if you will explain," said the spokesman, coldly.

"There's where you are mistaken," declared the Cap'n. "It would take
a long time to tell you the inside of this thing, and even then you
wouldn't know which, what, or whuther about it." In his heart Cap'n
Sproul was resolved that he would not own up to these strangers the
part his own negligence had played. He reflected for his consolation
that he had not projected the centennial celebration of Smyrna. It
occurred to him with illuminating force that he had pledged himself
to only one thing: to pay the bills of the celebration as fast as
they were presented to him. Consetena Tate was the secretary the town
had foisted on his committee. Consetena Tate had made definite
contracts. His lips twisted into a queer smile under his beard.

"Gents," he said, "there isn't any mystery about them contracts,
however. This town pays its bills. You say no one of you wants to
orate? That is entirely satisfactory to me--for I ain't runnin' that
part. I'm here to pay bills. Each one of you make out his bill and
receipt it. Then come with me to the town treasurer's office."

The tumultuous throngs that spied Cap'n Sproul leading that file of
distinguished men to Broadway's store--Broadway being treasurer of
Smyrna--merely gazed with a flicker of curiosity and turned again
to their sports, little realizing just what effect that file of men
was to have on the financial sinews of those sports. Cap'n Sproul
scarcely realized it himself until all the returns were in. He simply
hoped, that's all! And his hopes were more than justified.

"My Gawd, Cap'n," gasped Odbar Broadway when the notables had
received their money and had filed out, "what does this mean? There
ain't more'n a hundred dollars left of the surplus fund, and