“I’m him,” said the Cap’n, glowering up from under knotted eyebrows, his gaze principally on the shiny tile.

“I was just a little surprised that there was no committee of reception at the station to meet me,” said the stranger, in mild rebuke.  “There was not even a carriage there.  But I suppose it was an oversight, due to the rush of affairs to-day.”

The Cap’n still scowled at him, not in the least understanding why this stranger should expect to be carted into the village from the railroad.

“I will introduce myself.  I am Professor William Wilson Waverley, orator of the day; I have had some very pleasant correspondence with you, Captain Sproul, and I’m truly glad to meet you face to face.”

“You’ve got the advantage of me,” blurted the Cap’n, still dense.  “I never heard of you before in my life, nor I never wrote you any letter, unless I got up in my sleep and done it.”

With wonderment and some irritation growing on his face, the stranger pulled out a letter and laid it before the Cap’n.

The selectman studied it long enough to see that it was an earnest invitation to honor the town of Smyrna with a centennial oration, and that the town would pay all expenses; and the letter was signed, “Captain Aaron Sproul, First Selectman and Chairman of Committee, Per Consetena Tate, Secretary.”

“I never saw that before,” insisted the Cap’n.

“Do you mean that you disown it?”

“No, I reckon it’s all official and regular.  What I just said about not havin’ seen it before might have sounded a little queer, but there’s an explanation goes with it.  You see, it’s been this way.  I—­”

But at that moment fully a score of men filed into the office, all of them with set faces and indignant demeanors.  The Cap’n was not well posted on the breed of literati, but with half an eye he noted that these were not the ordinary sort of men.  There were more silk hats, there were broad-brimmed hats, there was scrupulousness in attire, there was the disarray of Bohemianism.  And it was plainly evident that these later arrivals had had word of conference with each other.  Each held a “Per Consetena Tate” letter in his hand.

“I have met with some amazing situations in my time—­in real life and in romance,” stated a hard-faced man who had evidently been selected as spokesman.  “But this seems so supremely without parallel that I am almost robbed of expression.  Here are ten of us, each having the same identical letter of invitation to deliver the oration of the day here on this occasion.”

“Ten, did you say?  Eleven,” said the first-comer.  “Here is my letter.”

“And the others have invitations to deliver discourses,” went on the spokesman, severely.  “As your name is signed to all these letters, Captain Aaron Sproul, first selectman of Smyrna, perhaps you will deign to explain to us what it all means.”

Cap’n Sproul arose and then sat down; arose and sat down again.  He tried to speak, but only a husky croak came forth.  Something seemed to have crawled into his throat—­something fuzzy and filling, that would not allow language to pass.