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It was certainly a queer place that Cap’n Sproul decided upon after several days of rumination.  His own abstraction during that time, and the unexplained absence of Hiram, the bridegroom of a month, an absence that was prolonged into a week, caused secret tears and apprehensive imaginings in both households.

Hiram came back, mysterious as the Sphinx.

Cap’n Sproul arranged for a secret meeting of the principals behind his barn, and announced his decision as to place.

“The poor-farm!” both snorted in unison.  “What—­”

“Hold right on!” interrupted the Cap’n, holding up his broad palms; “it can’t be in his barn on account of his wife; it can’t be in my barn on account of my wife.  Both of ’em are all wrought up and suspectin’ somethin’.  Some old pick-ed nose in this place is bound to see us if we try to sneak away into the woods.  Jim Wixon, the poor-farm keeper, holds his job through me.  He’s square, straight, and minds his own business.  I can depend on him.  He’ll hold the stakes.  There ain’t another man in town we can trust.  There ain’t a place as safe as the poor-farm barn.  Folks don’t go hangin’ round a poor-farm unless they have to.  It’s for there the ev’nin’ before the Fourth.  Agree, or count me out.  The first selectman of this town can’t afford to take too many chances, aidin’ and abettin’ a hen-fight.”

Therefore there was nothing else for it.  The principals accepted sullenly, and went their ways.

The taciturnity of Hiram Look was such during the few days before the meeting that Cap’n Sproul regretfully concluded to keep to his own hearthstone.  Hiram seemed to be nursing a secret.  The Cap’n felt hurt, and admitted as much to himself in his musings.

He went alone to the rendezvous at early dusk.  Keeper Wixon, of the poor-farm, had the big floor of the barn nicely swept, had hung lanterns about on the wooden harness-pegs, and was in a state of great excitement and impatience.

Second Selectman Reeves came first, lugging his crate from his beach-wagon.  The crate held the Widow Pike’s rooster.  His nomination had his head up between the slats, and was crowing regularly and raucously.

“Choke that dam fog-horn off!” commanded the Cap’n.  “What are ye tryin’ to do, advertise this sociable?”

“You talk like I was doin’ that crowin’ myself,” returned Reeves, sulkily.  “And nobody ain’t goin’ to squat his wizen and git him out of breath.  Hands off, and a fair show!”

Hiram Look was no laggard at the meeting.  He rumbled into the yard on the box of one of his animal cages, pulled out a huge bag containing something that kicked and wriggled, and deposited his burden on the barn floor.

“Now,” said he, brusquely, “business before pleasure!  You’ve got the stakes, eh, Wixon?”

“In my wallet here—­a thousand dollars,” replied the keeper, a little catch in his voice at thought of the fortune next his anxious heart.