Mr. Boolpin, having shaken hands solemnly with the three, asked them to walk up stairs and look at the hall.  They accordingly followed him up a series of creaking steps.

“Everything in apple-pie order,” said Mr. Boolpin.  “The three boxes containing the panorama right side up with care, you see.  I had them carted from the depot.  Cost me a dollar.  People thought they were coffins.  Ha! ha!  Six new tin candlesticks, you observe; also the ceiling whitewashed; also ten extra seats introduced, making the entire capacity of the hall three hundred and fifty—­giving twelve inches of sitting room to each person.  No extra charge for these fixings, though I made them expressly on your account.  There are some things about this hall to which I would call your attention.  Boo!  Boo!  Hallo!  Hallo!  No echo, you perceive.  Likewise notice the fine view from the window.”  Mr. Boolpin pointed to a swamp which could be distinctly seen over a housetop toward the east.  “The ventilation is a great feature, too.”  Mr. Boolpin directed his pestle toward a trap door in a corner of the ceiling, through which a quantity of rain had come a night or two previous, leaving a large wet patch on the floor.  “It’s almost too cheap for fifteen dollars a night.”

“For what?” asked Tiffles.

“For fifteen dollars,” replied Mr. Boolpin, twirling his pestle playfully.  “Of course, not reckoning in the one dollar that you owe me for cartage.  It’s too cheap.  I ought to have made it twenty dollars.”

“Why, Mr. Persimmon, the postmaster here, engaged the hall for five dollars.  Here is his letter mentioning the price.”  Tiffles produced the letter, and pointed out the numeral in question.

“It’s a 5, without any doubt,” rejoined Mr. Boolpin; “but Persimmon had no authority to name that price.  I distinctly told him fifteen dollars.  But here he is.  Perhaps he can explain it.”

The three turned on their heels, and beheld, standing at the door, a short, dirty man in a faded suit of black, and a cold-shining satin vest.  He wore an old hat set well back on a bald head, and his cravat was tied on one side in hangman’s fashion.  One leg of his trowsers was tucked into the top of his boot; the other hung down in its proper position.  The man’s face and hands wanted washing.  This was Mr. Persimmon, postmaster.  The secrets of his popularity were:  First, his addiction to dirt; second, his eccentricities of dress, heretofore enumerated; third, a reputation for political craft and long-headedness, not wholly unfounded, as his ingenuity in procuring the passage of resolutions supporting the policy of the Administration, in all the conventions of his party since he became postmaster, fully proved.  This political sage walked about town with Post-Office documents and confidential communications from Washington sticking out of all his pockets, and under the edge of his hat.  He had a slight stoop in the shoulders, which the local wits said had increased since he undertook to carry the Administration.