“Well,” said one of the trustees, with some venom, “Jabe Bickford is doin’ a good deal for this town, one way and another, but he wants to remember that his gran’ther had to call on us for town aid, and that there wa’n’t nary ever another Bickford that lived in this town or went out of it, except Jabe, that could get trusted for a barrel of flour.  Puttin’ on his airs out West is all right, but puttin’ ’em on here to home, among us that knows him and all his breed, is makin’ some of the old residents kind of sick.  Si Wallace hadn’t ought to call him by that name he did, but Si is talkin’ the way a good many feel.”

“If an angel from heaven should descend on this town with the gift of abidin’ grace,” said President Kitchen, sarcastically, “a lot of folks here would get behind his back and make faces at him.”

“Prob’ly would,” returned the trustee, imperturbably, “if said angel wore a plug hat and kid gloves from mornin’ till night, said ’Me good man’ to old codgers who knowed him when he had stone-bruises on his heels as big as pigeon’s aigs, and otherwise acted as though he was cream and every one else was buttermilk.”

“Well, when some of the rest of you have done as much for this town as Honer’ble Bickford,” broke in the president, testily, “you can have the right to criticise.  As it is, I can’t see anything but jealousy in it.  And I’ve heard enough of it.  Now, to make this thing all pleasant and agreeable to the Honer’ble Bickford, we’ve got to have Cap’n Sproul and Hiram Look act as judges with him.  ’Tis a vote!  Now, who will see Cap’n Sproul and—­”

“Considerin’ what has happened to those who have in times past tried to notify Cap’n Sproul of honors tendered to him in this town, you’d better pick out some one who knows how to use the wireless telegraph,” suggested one of the trustees.

“There won’t be any trouble in gettin’ Hiram Look to act,” said the president.  “He’s just enough of a circus feller to like to stand up before the crowd and show authority.  Well, then”—­the president’s wits were sharpened by his anxiety over the proposed exhibition hall—­“let Mr. Look arrange it with Cap’n Sproul.  They’re suckin’ cider through the same straw these days.”

And this suggestion was so eminently good that the meeting adjourned in excellent humor that made light of all the gloomy prognostications of Trustee Wallace.

As though good-fortune were in sooth ruling the affairs of the Smyrna A.F. & G.D.A., Hiram Look came driving past as the trustees came out of the tavern, their meeting-place.

He stroked his long mustache and listened.  At first his silk hat stuck up rigidly, but soon it began to nod gratified assent.

“I don’t know much about hoss-trottin’ rules, but a man that’s been in the show business for thirty years has got enough sportin’ blood in him for the job, I reckon.  Bickford and Sproul, hey?  Why, yes!  I’ll hunt up the Cap, and take him over to Bickford’s, and we’ll settle preliminaries, or whatever the hoss-talk is for gettin’ together.  I’d rather referee a prize-fight, but you’re too dead up this way for real sport to take well.  Nothing been said to Sproul?  All right!  I’ll fix him.”