“Don’t you fuss your mind about us in any way, shape, or manner,” retorted the foreman.  “When we march we march, when we eat we eat, when we sing we sing, when we squirt”—­he raised his voice and glared at the crowd surrounding—­“we’ll give ye a stream that the whole Vienny fire company can straddle and ride home on like it was a hobby-horse.”  And, concluding thus, he fondled his long mustaches away from his mouth and gazed on the populace with calm pride.  Caesar on the plains of Pharsalia, Pompey triumphant on the shores of Africa, Alexander at the head of his conquering Macedonians had not more serenity of countenance to display to the multitude.

XIV

Up came trotting a brisk little man with a notebook in one hand, a stubby lead-pencil in the other, a look of importance spread over his flushed features, and on his breast a broad, blue ribbon, inscribed:  “Chief Marshal.”

“Smyrna has drawed number five for the squirt,” he announced, “fallerin’ Vienny.  Committee on tub contests has selected Colonel Gideon Ward as referee.”

Hiram’s eyes began to blaze, and Cap’n Sproul growled oaths under his breath.  During the weeks of their growing intimacy the Cap’n had detailed to his friend the various phases of Colonel Gideon’s iniquity as displayed toward him.  Though the affairs of Hiram Look had not yet brought him into conflict with the ancient tyrant of Smyrna, Hiram had warmly espoused the cause and the grudge of the Cap’n.

“I’ll bet a thousand dollars against a jelly-fish’s hind leg that he begged the job so as to do you,” whispered Sproul.  “I ain’t been a brother-in-law of his goin’ on two years not to know his shenanigan.  It’s a plot.”

“Who picked out that old cross between a split-saw and a bull-thistle to umpire this muster?” shouted the foreman of the Ancients, to the amazement of the brisk little man.

“Why, he’s the leadin’ man in this section, and a Smyrna man at that,” explained the marshal.  “I don’t see how your company has got any kick comin’.  He’s one of your own townsmen.”

“And that’s why we know him better than you do,” protested Hiram, taking further cue from the glowering gaze of Cap’n Sproul.  “You put him out there with the tape, and you’ll see—­”

“‘Peace and politeness, and everybody happy,’” quoted Uncle Trufant, maliciously.  The serenity had departed from Foreman Look’s face.

“You don’t pretend to tell me, do ye, that the Smyrna Ancients are afraid to have one of their own citizens as a referee?” demanded the brisk little man suspiciously.  “If that’s so, then there must be something decayed about your organization.”

“I don’t think they’re down here to squirt accordin’ to the rules made and pervided,” went on the ancient Vienna satirist.  “They’ve brought Bostin bags and a couple of wimmen, and are goin’ to have a quiltin’-bee.  P’raps they think that Kunnel Gid Ward don’t know a fish-bone stitch from an over-and-over.  P’raps they think Kunnel Ward ain’t ladylike enough for ’em.”