This was Mr. Butterfield’s usual wind-up to his arguments; but on this occasion it seemed to fail of its effect.

The Moderator said, “Was Mr. Butterfield’s motion seconded?” There was no response.  “Then the matter before the meeting is the question of appropriating money for the support of the town library.”

“Mister Moderator,” said Mr. Smith, “I move that the donation from Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer be accepted, and that the library be named ’The Sawyer Free Public Library of the Town of Eastborough.’”

“Second the motion!” came from a hundred voices.

Strout was on his feet again.

“Mister Moderator,” said he, “I move to amend the motion by havin’ it read that we decline, that the town declines the donation without thanks.”

A loud laugh arose from the assemblage.

Abner Stiles had evidently misinterpreted Mr. Strout’s motion, for he called out, “Mister Moderator,” and when he got the floor, “I move to amend so that the motion would read, this library shall be called the Strout Free Library of the Town of Eastborough.”

This was greeted with shouts of laughter, and Strout grasped Abner by his coat collar and pulled him violently back upon the settee.

“Shut up, you fool,” cried he between his teeth to Abner; “do you want to make a laughin’ stock of me?”

“I kinder thought I wuz a-helpin’ yer,” said Abner, as he ran his fingers down under his chin and pulled away his shirt collar, which had been drawn back so forcibly that it interfered with his breathing.

“The question now,” said the Moderator, “is on the adoption of Mr. Smith’s motion.  Those in favor will please stand up and be counted.”

When the tellers had attended to their duty the Moderator said, “Those opposed will now rise and be counted.”

The vote was soon announced.  In favor of accepting the donation, three hundred and one; opposed, fifty-eight.

“It’s a vote,” declared the Moderator.

A dozen matters of minor importance were quickly disposed of, and but one remained upon the warrant, with the exception of the election of town officers.  Little squads of the members were now gathered together talking over the most important question of the meeting, which was the election of town officers for the ensuing year.  The last item on the warrant read:  “Will the town appropriate money to buy a new hearse?”

Mr. Butterfield had evidently been holding himself in reserve, for he was on his feet in an instant, and he secured the eye of the Moderator and the floor.

“Mister Moderator,” began Mr. Butterfield, “I desire to raise my voice agin this biznez of unnecessary and unexampled extravagance.  What do we want of a new hearse?  Those who are dead and in the cemetery don’t find any fault with the one we’ve got, and those who are livin’ have no present use for it, and why should they complain?  I know what this means.  This is only an enterin’