“Here are more than twenty prominent men, seduced from their manifold duties, called away up here to satisfy the rural idea of a joke—­or, at least, I can see no other explanation,” proceeded the hard-faced man.  “It might be remarked in passing that the joke will be an expensive one for this town.  Eleven distinguished men called here to deliver one oration in a one-horse town!”

The Cap’n did not like the bitter irony of his tone, and recovered his voice enough to say,

“You might cut the cards or spit at a crack, gents, to see which one does deliver the oration.”  But the pleasantry did not evoke any smile from that disgusted assemblage.

“It is safe to say that after this hideous insult not one of us will speak,” declared one of the group.  “But I for one would like some light on the insane freak that prompted this performance.  As you are at the head of this peculiar community, we’d like you to speak for it.”

Somewhat to his own surprise, Cap’n Sproul did not find in himself any especially bitter animosity toward Mr. Tate, just then, search his soul as he might.

These “lit’ry fellows,” cajoled by one of their own ilk into this unspeakable muddle, were, after all, he reflected, of the sort he had scorned with all his sailor repugnance to airs and pretensions.  Cap’n Sproul possessed a peculiarly grim sense of humor.  This indignant assemblage appealed to that sense.

“Gents,” he said, standing up and propping himself on the table by his knuckles, “there are things in this world that are deep mysteries.  Of course, men like you reckon you know most everything there is to be known.  But you see that on the bottom of each letter you have, there are the words:  ‘Per Consetena Tate.’  There’s where the mystery is in this case.”

“I imagine it isn’t so deep a mystery but that we can understand it if you will explain,” said the spokesman, coldly.

“There’s where you are mistaken,” declared the Cap’n.  “It would take a long time to tell you the inside of this thing, and even then you wouldn’t know which, what, or whuther about it.”  In his heart Cap’n Sproul was resolved that he would not own up to these strangers the part his own negligence had played.  He reflected for his consolation that he had not projected the centennial celebration of Smyrna.  It occurred to him with illuminating force that he had pledged himself to only one thing:  to pay the bills of the celebration as fast as they were presented to him.  Consetena Tate was the secretary the town had foisted on his committee.  Consetena Tate had made definite contracts.  His lips twisted into a queer smile under his beard.

“Gents,” he said, “there isn’t any mystery about them contracts, however.  This town pays its bills.  You say no one of you wants to orate?  That is entirely satisfactory to me—­for I ain’t runnin’ that part.  I’m here to pay bills.  Each one of you make out his bill and receipt it.  Then come with me to the town treasurer’s office.”