By degrees a practice resulted from this conspiracy of the S.F.M.E., and then a municipal election came along, and each candidate for the Mayoralty was given quietly to understand by parties representing the S.F.M.E., that unless Jack Barkis was made health officer of the city he’d better look out for himself, and while both candidates vowed they had made no pledges, each had sworn ten days before election-day by all that was holy that Barkis should have this eighteen-hundred-dollar office—­and he got it!  Young women may not vote, but they have influence in small cities.

At the end of the second year of the S.F.M.E.’s resolve that Barkis must be cared for he was in receipt of nearly twenty-eight hundred dollars a year, could afford a gig, and so command a practice; and having obtained his start, his own abilities took care of the rest.

And then what did Jack Barkis, M.D., do?  When luxuries began to manifest themselves in his home—­indeed, when he found himself able to rent a better one—­whom did he ask to share its joys with him?

Miss Daisy Peters, who had dosed her dog that he might profit?  No, indeed!

Miss Betsy Barbett, who disfigured her fair wrist in his behalf?  Alas, no!

Miss Hicks, who had spent a dollar to bribe a cook that he might earn two?  No, the ungrateful wretch!

Any member of the S.F.M.E.?  I regret to say not.

He went and married a girl from Los Angeles, whom he met on one of the summer vacations the S.F.M.E. had put within his reach—­a girl from whom no portion of his measure of prosperity had come.

Such was the ingratitude of Barkis.  They have never told me so, but I think the S.F.M.E. feel it keenly.  Barkis I believe to be unconscious of it—­but then he is in love with Mrs. Barkis, which is proper; and as I have already indicated, when a man is in love there are a great many things he does not see—­in fact, there is only one thing he does see, and that is Her Majesty, the Queen.  I can’t blame Barkis, and even though I was aware of the conspiracy to make him prosperous, I did not think of the ungrateful phase of it all until I spoke to Miss Peters about his fiancee, who had visited Dumfries Corners.

“She’s charming,” said I.  “Don’t you think so?”

“Oh yes,” said Miss Peters, dubiously.  “But I don’t see why Jack went to Los Angeles for a wife.”

“Ah?” said I.  “Maybe it was the only place where he could find one.”

“Thank you!” snapped Miss Peters.  “For my part, I think the Dumfries Corners girls are quite as attractive—­ah—­Betsy Barbett for instance—­or any other girl in Jack’s circle.”

“Like yourself?” I smiled.

“My!” she cried.  “How can you say such a thing?”

And really I was sorry I had said it.  It seemed so like twitting a person on facts, when I came to think about it.

THE UTILITARIAN MR. CARRAWAY