He only flapped a muddy hand at her, and seemed to be beyond speech.  There was a dull, wondering look in his eyes, as though he were trying to figure out some abstruse problem.  He did not brighten until a team came tearing up to the gate, and a man with a scoop fireman’s hat on came running to the porch.  The man saluted.

“Chief,” he said, with the air of an aide reporting on the field of battle, “that house and barn got away from us, but we fit well for ’em—­yas s’r, we fit well!  It is thought queer in some quarters that you wasn’t there to take charge, but I told the boys that you’d prob’ly got good reasons, and they’ll git over their mad, all right.  You needn’t worry none about that!”

The Cap’n’s sole reply was another of those hollow “unks!”

“But the boys is pretty well beat out, and so I’ve run over to ask if you’ll let us use your ten-dollar fine for a treat?  That will help their feelin’s to’ards you a good deal, and—­”

The Cap’n, without taking his eyes from the smug face of the man, swung one of the buckets and let drive at him.  It missed.  But he had got his range, and the next bucket knocked off the scoop hat.  When the Cap’n scrambled to his feet, loaded with the bed-wrench for his next volley, the man turned and ran for his team.  The bed-wrench caught him directly between the shoulders—­a masterly shot.  The trumpet flew wild, but by that time the emissary of the Ancients was in his wagon and away.

“Aaron!” his wife began, quaveringly, but the Cap’n leaped toward her, pulled the mouth of the puckering-bag over her head, and hopped into the house.  When at last she ventured to peer in at the sitting-room window, he was tearing the book of “Rules of the Smyrna Ancient and Honorable Firemen’s Association,” using both his hands and his teeth, and worrying it as a dog worries a bone.

That was his unofficial resignation.  The official one came as soon as he could control his language.

And for a certain, prolonged period in the history of the town of Smyrna it was well understood that Cap’n Aaron Sproul was definitely out of public affairs.  But in public affairs it often happens that honors that are elusive when pursued are thrust upon him who does not seek them.

VII

The moderator of the Smyrna town meeting held his breath for just a moment so as to accentuate the hush in which the voters listened for his words, and then announced the result of the vote for first selectman of Smyrna: 

“Whole number cast, one hundred thutty-two; necessary for a choice, sixty-seven; of which Colonel Gideon Ward has thutty-one.”

A series of barking, derisive yells cut in upon his solemn announcement, and he rapped his cane on the marred table of the town hall and glared over his spectacles at the voters.

“And Cap’n Aaron Sproul has one hundred and—­”