our Mayor.

And these, our Dioscuri, were one and the same man! In truth, I
suppose we ought to have been proudest of him as Mayor; since as
Mayor he represented the King himself among us--nay, to all intents
and purposes _was_ the King. More than once in his public speeches
he reminded us of this: and we were glad to remember it when--as
sometimes happened--we ran a cargo from Roscoff or Guernsey and left
a cask or two privily behind the Mayor's quay door. We felt then
that his Majesty had been paid duty, and could have no legitimate
grievance against us.

Was there any mental confusion in this? You would pardon it had you
ever been privileged to witness his Sunday procession to church, in
scarlet robe trimmed with sable, in cocked-hat and chain of office;
the mace-bearers marching before in scarlet with puce-coloured capes,
the aldermen following after in tasselled gowns of black; the band
ahead playing "The Girl I left behind Me" (for, although organised
for home defence, our corps had chosen this to be its regimental
tune). "Some talk of Alexander and some of Hercules"--and some of
Solomon, who never saw _our_ Solomon on the bench of justice!

Let me tell you of his famous decision on Sabbath-breaking.
One Sunday afternoon our Mayor's slumbers were interrupted by Jago
the constable, who haled before him a man, a horse, and two
pannier-loads of vegetables, and charged the first-named with this
heinous offence. The fellow--a small tenant-farmer from the
outskirts of the parish--could not deny that he had driven his cart
down to the Town Quay, unharnessed, and started in a loud voice to
cry his wares. There, almost on the instant, Jago had taken him
_in flagrante delicto_, and, having an impediment in his speech, had
used no words but collared him.

"What have you to say for yourself?" the Mayor demanded.

"Darn me if I know what's amiss with the town to-day!" the culprit
made answer. "Be it a funeral?"

"You are charged with trading, or attempting to trade, on the
Sabbath; and sad hearing this will be for your old parents, John
Polkinghorne."

John Polkinghorne scratched his head. "You ben't going to tell me
that this be Sunday!" (You see, the poor fellow, living so far in
the country, had somehow miscounted the week, and ridden in to market
a day late.)

"Sunday?" cried the Mayor. "Look at my Bible, there, 'pon the table!
Look at my clean bandanna!"--this was his handkerchief, that he had
been