who realized this, and all that
would happen if one side or the other were victorious, one was Alexander
Duncan, another Isaac D. Worthington, and the third was Jethro Bass.

Jethro would never have been capable of being master of the state had he
not foreseen the time when the railroads, tired of paying tribute, would
turn and try to exterminate the boss. The really astonishing thing about
Jethro's foresight (known to few only) was that he perceived clearly that
the time would come when the railroads and other aggregations of capital
would exterminate the boss, or at least subserviate him. This alone, the
writer thinks, gives him some right to greatness. And Jethro Bass made up
his mind that the victory of the railroads, in his state at least, should
not come in his day. He would hold and keep what he had fought all his
life to gain.

Jethro knew, when Jake Wheeler failed to bring him a message back from
Clovelly, that the war had begun, and that Isaac D. Worthington,
commander of the railroad forces in the field, had captured his pawn, the
hill-Rajah. By getting through to Harwich, the Truro had made a sad
muddle in railroad affairs. It was now a connecting link; and its
president, the first citizen of Brampton, a man of no small importance in
the state. This fact was not lost upon Jethro, who perceived clearly
enough the fight for consolidation that was coming in the next
Legislature.

Seated on an old haystack on Thousand Acre Hill, that sits in turn on the
lap of Coniston, Jethro smiled as he reflected that the first trial of
strength in this mighty struggle was to be over (what the unsuspecting
world would deem a trivial matter) the postmastership of Brampton. And
Worthington's first move in the game would be to attempt to capture for
his faction the support of the Administration itself.

Jethro thought the view from Thousand Acre Hill, especially in September,
to be one of the sublimest efforts of the Creator. It was September,
first of the purple months in Coniston, not the red-purple of the Maine
coast, but the blue-purple of the mountain, the color of the bloom on the
Concord grape. His eyes, sweeping the mountain from the notch to the
granite ramp of the northern buttress, fell on the weather-beaten little
farmhouse in which he had lived for many years, and rested lovingly on
the orchard, where the golden early apples shone among the leaves. But
Jethro was not looking at the apples.

"Cynthy," he called