“Short weights are reason enough.”

Leila listened, sorry for Pole, who reddened and replied, “Fact is, ma’am, I don’t always do the weighing myself, and the boys they are real careless.  What with Hannah’s asthma keeping me awake and a lot of fools loafing around and talking politics, I do wonder I ever get things right.  It’s Fremont and it’s Buchanan—­a man can’t tell what to do.”

Mrs. Penhallow was not usually to be turned aside, and meant now to deal out even justice.  But if the butcher knew it or not, she was offered what she liked and at home could not have.  “I hope, Pole, you are not going to vote for Fremont.”

“Well, ma’am, it ain’t easy to decide.  I’ve always followed the Squire.”  Ann Penhallow knew, alas! what this would mean.

“I’ve been thinking I’ll stand to vote for Buchanan.  Was you wanting a saddle of lamb to-day?  I have one here, and a finer I never saw.”

“Well, Pole, keep your politics and your weights in order.  Send me the lamb.”

The butcher smiled as Mrs. Ann turned away.  Whether the lady of Grey Pine was conscious of having bought a vote or not, it was pretty clear to her nephew that Peter Pole’s weights would not be further questioned as long as his politics were Democratic.

When his aunt had gone, John called Bill Pole out of the shop and said, “There’s to be no swimming for a week, for any of us.  Where are the other fellows?”

“Guessed we would catch it.  They’re playing ball back of the church.  I’ll go along with you.”

He was pleased to see how the others would take their deprivation of a swim in the September heat.  They came on the other culprit’s, who called to John to come and play.  He was not so minded, and was in haste to get through with a disagreeable errand.  As he hesitated, Pole eager to distribute the unpleasant news cried out, “The Squire says that we can’t swim in the pool for a week—­none of us.  How do you fellows like that?”

“It’s mighty mean of him.”

“What’s that?” said John.  “He was right and you know it.  I don’t like it any better than you do—­but—­”

Bill Baynton, the youngest boy, broke in, “Who told the Squire what fellows was in it?”

“It wasn’t Billy,” said another lad; “he just kept on yelling you was dead.”

“Look here,” said Tom McGregor turning to John, “did you tell the Squire we fellows set it up?”

John was insulted.  He knew well the playground code of honour, but remembered in time his boxing-master’s advice, the more mad you are the cooler you keep yourself.  He replied in his old formal way, “The question is one you have no right to ask; it is an insult.”

To the boys the failure to say “no” meant evasion.  “Then, of course, you told,” returned the older lad.  “If I wasn’t afraid you’d run home and complain, I’d spank you.”