The tumultuous throngs that spied Cap’n Sproul leading that file of distinguished men to Broadway’s store—­Broadway being treasurer of Smyrna—­merely gazed with a flicker of curiosity and turned again to their sports, little realizing just what effect that file of men was to have on the financial sinews of those sports.  Cap’n Sproul scarcely realized it himself until all the returns were in.  He simply hoped, that’s all!  And his hopes were more than justified.

“My Gawd, Cap’n,” gasped Odbar Broadway when the notables had received their money and had filed out, “what does this mean?  There ain’t more’n a hundred dollars left of the surplus fund, and there ain’t any of the prizes and appropriations paid yet!  Who be them plug-hatters from all over God’s creation, chalkin’ up railroad fares agin us like we had a machine to print money in this town?”

“Them vouchers is all right, ain’t they?” demanded the Cap’n.  “Them vouchers with letters attached?”

“Yes, they be,” faltered the treasurer.

“So fur as who strangers may be, you can ask Pote Consetena Tate, secretary, about that.  They’re lit’ry gents, and he’s done all the official business with them.”

Broadway stared at him, and then began to make some hasty figures.

“See here, Cap’n,” he said, plaintively, “there’s just about enough of that fund left to settle the committee bill here at my store.  Have I got to share pro raty?”

“Pay yourself and clean it out.  I’ll countersign your bill,” declared the chairman, cheerfully.  “If there ain’t any fund, I can go home.  I’m infernal sick of this hellitywhoop noise.”

And he trudged back up the hill to the quietude of his farm, with deep content.

He had been some hours asleep that night when vigorous poundings on his door awoke him, and when at last he appeared on his piazza he found a large and anxious delegation of citizens filling his yard.

“Cap’n,” bleated one of the committee, “Broadway says there ain’t any money to pay prizes with.”

“Vouchers is all right.  Money paid on contracts signed by your official secretary, that you elected unanimous,” said the Cap’n, stoutly.

“We know it,” cried the committeeman, “but we don’t understand it.”

“Then hunt up the man that made the contracts—­Pote Tate,” advised the selectman.  “All the business I’ve done was to pay out the money.  You know what stand I’ve took right along.”

“We know it, Cap’n, and we ain’t blamin’ you—­but we don’t understand, and we can’t find Consetena Tate.  His folks don’t know where he is.  He’s run away.”

“Potes are queer critters,” sighed the Cap’n, compassionately.  He turned to go in.

“But how are we goin’ to get the money to pay up for the sports, the fireworks, and things?”

“Them that hires fiddlers and dances all day and night must expect to pay said fiddlers,” announced the Cap’n, oracularly.  “I reckon you’ll have to pass the hat for the fiddlers.”