Scattergood was present, sitting in a corner under the overhang of the balcony, watching, but discouraging conversation.  If one had studied his face during the early proceedings he would have read nothing except a genial interest, which was the thing Coldriver expected to see on Scattergood’s face.  Town questions were decided, matters of sidewalks, of road building, of schools, and every instance Marvin Towne’s fifty-two voted as a unit, swinging from one side to the other as their peculiar interest dictated.  On all minor questions it was Marvin Towne’s Prohibitionists who decided, because they carried the volume of votes necessary to control.  But when it came to major affairs, such as the election of officers, there would be a different story.  Then they could join with neither party, but must stand alone as a unit, far outvoted.

So the regulars disregarded them, or if they gave them any attention it was jocular.  Even Marvin viewed the day as lost, but Scattergood held him to the mark with a word passed now and then.  It came three o’clock of the afternoon before nominations for the high office of legislator were the order of proceeding.  Jim Allen and Pazzy Cox were placed before the meeting as candidates amid the stimulated applause of their adherents.  Marvin Towne’s name was received with laughter and such jeers as the New England breed of farmer and townsman has rendered his own, and at which he is a genius surpassed by none.

Chairman Pilkinton arose, as befitted the moment.

“Feller townsmen, we will now proceed to cast our ballots for the office of representative in the legislature.  The polls is open, and overlooked by Town-marshal Pease.  The ballotin’ will begin.”

And then....

At that instant there was an uproar on the stairs.  Pliny Pickett burst into the room, his hat missing, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

“It’s a-comin’ off.  They’ve stole a march.  Hoss race!...  Hoss race!...  Ren Green and Wade Lumley’s got their bosses up to Deacon Pettybone’s and they’re goin’ to race to the dam.  Everybody out.  Hoss race!...  Hoss race!...”  He turned and ran frantically down the stairs, and on his heels followed the voters of Coldriver.  But one or two remained; men too rheumatic to chance rapid movement, or those whose positions compelled them to consider as non-existent such a matter as a race between quadrupeds.

But no sooner had the hall cleared than men began to return, in couples, in squads, and to take their seats.  Scattergood was standing up now, counting.  Fifty-two he counted, and remained standing.

“Polls is open, Mr. Chairman,” says he.

“They was declared so, but—­er—­the voters has gone.  I hain’t clear how to perceed.”

“Do your duty, chairman, like you said.  Town meetings don’t calculate to take account of hoss races, do they?  Eh?...  None of your affair, is it?”

Pilkinton looked at Scattergood, who smiled genially and said:  “Duty’s duty, Pilkinton.  If you was to fail in your duty as a public officer, folks might git to think you wasn’t the sort of citizen that could be trusted.  Might even affect sich things as credit and promissory notes.”