Hiram sighed.  His car of hopes so laboriously warped to the top summit of success had been sluiced to the bottom.  But he understood the temper of the populace of Smyrna in those piping days better than Cap’n Sproul did.  Consetena Tate was not to be put aside with a wave of the hand.

Hiram began again.  At first he talked to deaf ears.  He even had to drown out contumely.  But his arguments were good!  Consetena Tate could write the many letters that would be necessary.  There were many organizations to invite to town, many prominent citizens of the county to solicit, for the day would not shine without the presence of notables.  There was all the work of that sort to be done with the delicate touch of the literary man—­work that the Cap’n could not do.  Mr. Tate had earned the position—­at least the folks in town thought he had—­and demanded him as the man through whom they could accomplish all epistolary effects.

In the end Hiram won the Cap’n over even to this concession.  The Cap’n was too weary to struggle farther against what seemed to be his horrid destiny.

“I’ll have him at town office to-morrow mornin’,” declared Hiram, grabbing at the first growl that signified submission.  “You’ll find him meek and humble and helpful—­I know you will.”  Then he promptly hurried away before the Cap’n revived enough to change his mind.

Cap’n Sproul found his new secretary on the steps of the town office the next morning, and scowled on him.  Mr. Tate wore a little black hat cocked on his shaggy mane, and his thin nose was blue in the crisp air of early May.  He sat on the steps propping a big portfolio on his knees.  His thin legs outlined themselves against his baggy trousers with the effect of broomsticks under cloth.

He arose and followed the sturdy old seaman into the office.  He sat down, still clinging to the portfolio, and watched the Cap’n build a fire in the rusty stove.  The selectman had returned no answer to the feeble attempts that Mr. Tate had made to open conversation.

“Far asunder your life aims and my life aims have been, Cap’n Sproul,” observed the secretary at last.  “But when ships hail each other out of the darkness—­”

“Three-stickers don’t usually luff very long when they’re hailed by punts,” grunted the old skipper.

“There is a common ground on which all may meet,” insisted Mr. Tate; “I frequently inaugurate profitable conversations and lay the foundations of new friendships this way:  Who are your favorite poets?”

“Say, now, look here!” blurted the Cap’n, coming away from the stove and dusting his hard hands together; “you’ve been rammed into my throat, and I’m havin’ pretty blamed hard work to swallow you.  I may be able to do it if you don’t daub on portry.  Now, if you’ve got any idea what you’re here for and what you’re goin’ to do, you get at it.  Do you know?”

“I had ventured upon a little plan,” said Mr. Tate, meekly.  “I thought that first of all I would arrange the literary programme for the day, the oration, the poem, the various addresses, and I already have a little schedule to submit to you.  I have a particular request to make, Cap’n Sproul.  I wish that you, as chairman of the committee, would designate me as poet-laureate of the grand occasion.”