“It ain’t no use,” he reflected, his mind bitter with the memories of his own occupancy of that office.  “It’s like the smallpox and the measles; you’ve got to have a run of ’em yourself before you’re safe from ketchin’ ’em.”

The Honorable J. Percival Bickford, rotund and suave with the mushiness of the near-gentleman, met them graciously in the hall, having waited for the servant to announce them.

Hiram did most of the talking, puffing at one of the host’s long cigars.  Cap’n Sproul sat on the edge of a spider-legged chair, great unhappiness on his countenance.  Mr. Bickford was both charmed and delighted, so he said, by their acceptance, and made it known that he had suggested them, in his anxiety to have only gentlemen of standing associated with him.

“As the landed proprietors of the town, as you might say,” he observed, “it becomes us as due our position to remove ourselves a little from the herd.  In the judges’ stand we can, as you might say, be patrons of the sports of the day, without loss of dignity.  I believe—­and this is also my suggestion—­that the trustees are to provide an open barouche, and we will be escorted from the gate to the stand by a band of music.  That will be nice.  And when it is over we will award the prizes, as I believe they call it—­”

“Announce winners of heats and division of purses,” corrected Hiram, out of his greater knowledge of sporting affairs.  “I’ll do that through a megaphone.  When I barked in front of my show you could hear me a mile.”

“It will all be very nice,” said Mr. Bickford, daintily flecking cigar ash from his glorious white waistcoat.  “Er—­by the way—­I see that you customarily wear a silk hat, Mr. Look.”

“It needs a plug hat, a lemon, and a hunk of glass to run a circus,” said the ex-showman.

“Yes, men may say what they like, Mr. Look, the people expect certain things in the way of garb from those whom they honor with position.  Er—­do you wear a silk hat officially, Captain Sproul, as selectman?”

“Not by a—­never had one of the things on!” replied the Cap’n, moderating his first indignant outburst.

“I’m going to do you a bit of neighborly kindness,” said Mr. Bickford, blandly.  “James,” he called to the servant, “bring the brown bandbox in the hall closet.  It’s one of my hats,” he explained.  “I have several.  You may wear it in the stand, with my compliments, Captain Sproul.  Then we’ll be three of a kind, eh?  Ha, ha!”

The Cap’n licked his lips as though fever burned there, and worked his Adam’s apple vigorously.  Probably if he had been in the accustomed freedom of outdoors he would have sworn soulfully and smashed the bandbox over the Honorable J. Percival’s bald head.  Now, in the stilted confines of that ornate parlor, he nursed the bandbox on his knees, as part of the rest of the spider-legged and frail surroundings.  When they retired to their team he carried the bandbox held gingerly out in front of him, tiptoeing across the polished floor.