“You can be any kind of a pote you want to,” said the selectman, promptly.  “And I’ll tell you right here and now, I don’t give a continental thunderation about your programmy or your speech-makers—­not even if you go dig up old Dan’l Webster and set him on the stand.  I didn’t start this thing, and I ain’t approvin’ of it.  I’m simply grabbin’ in on it so that I can make sure that the fools of this town won’t hook into that money with both hands and strew it galley-west.  That’s me!  Now, if you’ve got business, then ’tend to it!  And I’ll be ‘tendin’ to mine!”

It was not an encouraging prospect for a secretary who desired to be humble and helpful.  Cap’n Sproul busied himself with a little pile of smudgy account-books, each representing a road district of the town.  He was adding “snow-bills.”  Mr. Tate gazed forlornly on the fiercely puckered brow and “plipping” lips, and heard the low growl of profanity as the Cap’n missed count on a column and had to start over again.  Then Mr. Tate sighed and opened his portfolio.  He sat staring above it at the iron visage of the first selectman, who finally grew restive under this espionage.

“Say, look-a-here, Pote Tate,” he growled, levelling flaming eyes across the table, “if you think you’re goin’ to set there lookin’ at me like a Chessy cat watchin’ a rat-hole, you and me is goin’ to have trouble, and have it sudden and have it vi’lent!”

“I wanted to ask you a question—­some advice!” gasped the secretary.

“Haven’t I told you to pick out your business and ’tend to it?” demanded the Cap’n, vibrating his lead-pencil.

“But this is about spending some money.”

“Well, mebbe that’s diff’runt.”  The selectman modified his tone.  “Go ahead and stick in your paw!  What’s this first grab for?” he asked, resignedly.

“To make my letters official and regular,” explained Mr. Tate, “I’ve got to have stationery printed with the names of the committee on it—­you as chairman, per Consetena Tate, secretary.”

“Go across to the printin’-office and have some struck off,” directed the selectman.  “If havin’ some paper to write on will get you busy enough so’t you won’t set there starin’ me out of countenance, it will be a good investment.”

For the next few days Mr. Tate was quite successful in keeping himself out from under foot, so the Cap’n grudgingly admitted to Hiram.  He found a little stand in a corner of the big room and doubled himself over it, writing letters with patient care.  The first ones he ventured to submit to the Cap’n before sealing them.  But the chairman of the committee contemptuously refused to read them or to sign.  Therefore Mr. Tate did that service for his superior, signing:  “Capt.  Aaron Sproul, Chairman.  Per Consetena Tate, Secretary.”  He piled the letters, sealed, before the Cap’n, and the latter counted them carefully and issued stamps with scrupulous exactness.  Replies came in printed return envelopes; but, though they bore his name, Cap’n Sproul scornfully refused to touch one of them.  The stern attitude that he had assumed toward the Smyrna centennial celebration was this:  Toleration, as custodian of the funds; but participation, never!