When he read this article of the warrant, posted in the public places of the village, it had not impressed him particularly.  Now, he saw Miss Butterworth’s hand in it.  Evidently, Mr. Belcher was not the only man who had been honored by a call from that philanthropic woman.  As he thought the matter over, he regretted that, for the sake of giving form and force to his spite against her, he should be obliged to relinquish the popularity he might have won by favoring a reformative measure.  He saw something in it, also, that might be made to add to Tom Buffum’s profits, but even this consideration weighed nothing against his desire for personal revenge, to be exhibited in the form of triumphant personal power.

He rose from his chair, walked his room, swinging his hands backward and forward, casting furtive glances into his mirror, and then rang his bell.  He had arrived at a conclusion.  He had fixed upon his scheme, and was ready for work.

“Tell Phipps to come here,” he said to the maid who responded to the summons.

Phipps was his coachman, body-servant, table-waiter, pet, butt for his jests, tool, man of all occasions.  He considered himself a part of Mr. Belcher’s personal property.  To be the object of his clumsy badinage, when visitors were present and his master was particularly amiable, was equivalent to an honorable public notice.  He took Mr. Belcher’s cast-off clothes, and had them reduced in their dimensions for his own wearing, and was thus always able to be nearly as well dressed and foppish as the man for whom they were originally made.  He was as insolent to others as he was obsequious to his master—­a flunky by nature and long education.

Phipps appeared.

“Well, Phipps, what are you here for?” inquired Mr. Belcher.

“I was told you wanted me, sir,” looking doubtfully with his cunning eyes into Mr. Belcher’s face, as if questioning his mood.

“How is your health?  You look feeble.  Overwhelmed by your tremendous duties?  Been sitting up late along back?  Eh?  You rascal!  Who’s the happy woman?”

Phipps laughed, and twiddled his fingers.

“You’re a precious fellow, and I’ve got to get rid of you.  You are altogether too many for me.  Where did you get that coat?  It seems to me I’ve seen something like that before.  Just tell me how you do it, man.  I can’t dress the way you do.  Yes, Phipps, you’re too many for me!”

Phipps smiled, aware that he was expected to make no reply.

“Phipps, do you expect to get up to-morrow morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, you do!  Very well!  See that you do.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Phipps—­”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring the grays and the light wagon to the door to-morrow morning at seven o’clock.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Phipps, gather all the old clothes about the house that you can’t use yourself, and tie ’em up in a bundle, and put ’em into the back of the wagon.  Mum is the word, and if Mrs. Belcher asks you any questions, tell her I think of turning Sister of Charity.”