“Oh, git out!” shouted a voice at the rear.

“Question! question!” called a dozen voices.

The moderator caught a wink and a nod from Mr. Belcher, and put the question, amid the protests of Dr. Radcliffe; and it was triumphantly carried.

And now, as the town-meeting drops out of this story, let us leave it, and leave Mr. Thomas Buffum at its close to underbid all contestants for the privilege of feeding the paupers of Sevenoaks for another year.

CHAPTER III

In which Jim Fenton is introduced to the reader and introduces himself to miss Butterworth.

Miss Butterworth, while painfully witnessing the defeat of her hopes from the last seat in the hall, was conscious of the presence at her side of a very singular-looking personage, who evidently did not belong in Sevenoaks.  He was a woodsman, who had been attracted to the hall by his desire to witness the proceedings.  His clothes, originally of strong material, were patched; he held in his hand a fur cap without a visor; and a rifle leaned on the bench at his side.  She had been attracted to him by his thoroughly good-natured face, his noble, muscular figure, and certain exclamations that escaped from his lips during the speeches.  Finally, he turned to her, and with a smile so broad and full that it brought an answer to her own face, he said:  “This ‘ere breathin’ is worse nor an old swamp.  I’m goin’, and good-bye to ye!”

Why this remark, personally addressed to her, did not offend her, coming as it did from a stranger, she did not know; but it certainly did not seem impudent.  There was something so simple and strong and manly about him, as he had sat there by her side, contrasted with the baser and better dressed men before her, that she took his address as an honorable courtesy.

When the woodsman went out upon the steps of the town-hall, to get a breath, he found there such an assembly of boys as usually gathers in villages on the smallest public occasion.  Squarely before the door stood Mr. Belcher’s grays, and in Mr. Belcher’s wagon sat Mr. Belcher’s man, Phipps.  Phipps was making the most of his position.  He was proud of his horses, proud of his clothes, proud of the whip he was carelessly snapping, proud of belonging to Mr. Belcher.  The boys were laughing at his funny remarks, envying him his proud eminence, and discussing the merits of the horses and the various points of the attractive establishment.

As the stranger appeared, he looked down upon the boys with a broad smile, which attracted them at once, and quite diverted them from their flattering attentions to Phipps—­a fact quickly perceived by the latter, and as quickly revenged in a way peculiar to himself and the man from whom he had learned it.

“This is the hippopotamus, gentlemen,” said Phipps, “fresh from his native woods.  He sleeps underneath the banyan-tree, and lives on the nuts of the hick-o-ree, and pursues his prey with his tail extended upward and one eye open, and has been known when excited by hunger to eat small boys, spitting out their boots with great violence.  Keep out of his way, gentlemen!  Keep out of his way, and observe his wickedness at a distance.”