Mr. Winslow interrupted; his drawl was a trifle less evident.

“Congressman Taylor asked Sam for the truth regardin’ Phineas and a certain matter,” he said.  “Sam told the truth, that’s all.”

“Well, maybe that’s so, but does tellin’ the truth about folks make ’em love you?  I don’t know as it does.”

Winslow appeared to meditate.

“No-o,” he observed, thoughtfully, “I don’t suppose you do.”

“No, I . . .  Eh?  What do you mean by that?  Look here, Jed Winslow, if—­”

Jed held up a big hand.  “There, there, Gabe,” he suggested, mildly.  “Let’s hear about Sam and Phin Babbitt.  What was Phineas goin’ on about when you was in his store?”

Mr. Bearse forgot personal grievance in his eagerness to tell the story.

“Why,” he began, “you see, ’twas like this:  ’Twas all on account of Leander.  Leander’s been drafted.  You know that, of course?”

Jed nodded.  Leander Babbitt was the son of Phineas Babbitt, Orham’s dealer in hardware and lumber and a leading political boss.  Between Babbitt, Senior, and Captain Sam Hunniwell, the latter President of the Orham National Bank and also a vigorous politician, the dislike had always been strong.  Since the affair of the postmastership it had become, on Babbitt’s part, an intense hatred.  During the week just past young Babbitt’s name had been drawn as one of Orham’s quota for the new National Army.  The village was still talking of the draft when the news came that Captain Hunniwell had been selected as a member of the Exemption Board for the district, the Board which was to hold its sessions at Ostable and listen to the pleas of those desiring to be excused from service.  Not all of Orham knew this as yet.  Jed Winslow had heard it, from Captain Sam himself.  Gabe Bearse had heard it because he made it his business to hear everything, whether it concerned him or not—­preferably not.

The war had come to Orham with the unbelievable unreality with which it had come to the great mass of the country.  Ever since the news of the descent of von Kluck’s hordes upon devoted Belgium, in the fall of 1914, the death grapple in Europe had, of course, been the principal topic of discussion at the post office and around the whist tables at the Setuckit Club, where ancient and retired mariners met and pounded their own and each other’s knees while they expressed sulphurous opinions concerning the attitude of the President and Congress.  These opinions were, as a usual thing, guided by the fact of their holders’ allegiance to one or the other of the great political parties.  Captain Sam Hunniwell, a lifelong and ardent Republican, with a temper as peppery as the chile con carne upon which, when commander of a steam freighter trading with Mexico, he had feasted so often—­Captain Sam would have hoisted the Stars and Stripes to the masthead the day the Lusitania sank and put to sea in a dory, if need be, and armed only with a shotgun, to avenge that outrage.  To hear Captain Sam orate concerning the neglect of duty of which he considered the United States government guilty was an experience, interesting or shocking, according to the drift of one’s political or religious creed.