his high position. Mr. Merrill, who sat at
Jethro's table next to Cynthia that evening, did a great deal of joking
with the Honorable Heth about having to preside aver a woodchuck session,
which the Speaker, so Mr. Wetherell thought, took in astonishingly good
part, and seemed very willing to make the great sacrifice which his duty
required of him.

After supper Mr. Wetherell took a seat in the rotunda. As an observer of
human nature, he had begun to find a fascination in watching the group of
politicians there. First of all he encountered Mr. Amos Cuthbert, his
little coal-black eyes burning brightly, and he was looking very
irritable indeed.

"So you're going to the show, Amos?" remarked the storekeeper, with an
attempt at cordiality.

To his bewilderment, Amos turned upon him fiercely.

"Who said I was going to the show?" he snapped.

"You yourself told me."

"You'd ought to know whether I'm a-goin' or not," said Amos, and walked
away.

While Mr. Wetherell sat meditating, upon this inexplicable retort, a
retired, scholarly looking gentleman with a white beard, who wore
spectacles, came out of the door leading from the barber shop and quietly
took a seat beside him. The storekeeper's attention was next distracted
by the sight of one who wandered slowly but ceaselessly from group to
group, kicking up his heels behind, and halting always in the rear of the
speakers. Needless to say that this was our friend Mr. Bijah Bixby, who
was following out his celebrated tactics of "going along by when they
were talkin' sly." Suddenly Mr. Bixby's eye alighted on Mr. Wetherell,
who by a stretch of imagination conceived that it expressed both
astonishment and approval, although he was wholly at a loss to understand
these sentiments. Mr. Bixby winked--Mr. Wetherell was sure of that. But
to his surprise, Bijah did not pause in his rounds to greet him.

Mr. Wetherell was beginning to be decidedly uneasy, and was about to go
upstairs, when Mr. Merrill came down the rotunda whistling, with his
hands in his pockets. He stopped whistling when he spied the storekeeper,
and approached him in his usual hearty manner.

"Well, well, this is fortunate," said Mr. Merrill; "how are you, Duncan?
I want you to know Mr. Wetherell. Wetherell writes that weekly letter for
the Guardian you were speaking to me about last year. Will, this is Mr.
Alexander Duncan, president of the 'Central.'"

"How do you do, Mr. Wetherell?" said the scholarly