So far we have only suspicions ourselves; and, strange to relate, if we go around Coniston with Jethro behind his little red Morgan, we shall come back with nothing but—­suspicions.  They will amount to convictions, yet we cannot prove them.  The reader very naturally demands some specific information—­how did Jethro do it?  I confess that I can only indicate in a very general way:  I can prove nothing.  Nobody ever could prove anything against Jethro Bass.  Bring the following evidence before any grand jury in the country, and see if they don’t throw it out of court.

Jethro in the course of his weekly round of strictly business visits throughout the town, drives into Samuel Todd’s farmyard, and hitches on the sunny side of the red barns.  The town of Coniston, it must be explained for the benefit of those who do not understand the word “town” in the New England senses was a tract of country about ten miles by ten, the most thickly settled portion of which was the village of Coniston, consisting of twelve houses.  Jethro drives into the barnyard, and Samuel Todd comes out.  He is a little man, and has a habit of rubbing the sharp ridge of his nose.

“How be you, Jethro?” says Samuel.  “Killed the brindle Thursday.  Finest hide you ever seed.”

“G-goin’ to town meetin’ Tuesday—­g-goin’ to town meetin’ Tuesday—­Sam’l?” says Jethro.

“I was callatin’ to, Jethro.”

“Democrat—­hain’t ye—­Democrat?”

“Callate to be.”

“How much store do ye set by that hide?”

Samuel rubs his nose.  Then he names a price that the hide might fetch, under favorable circumstances, in Boston—­Jethro does not wince.

“Who d’ye callate to vote for, Sam’l?”

Samuel rubs his nose.

“Heerd they was a-goin’ to put up Fletcher and Amos Cuthbert, an’ Sam Price for Moderator.” (What a convenient word is they when used politically!) “Hain’t made up my mind, clear,” says Samuel.

“C-comin’ by the tannery after town meetin’?” inquired Jethro, casually.

“Don’t know but what I kin.”

“F-fetch the hide—­f-fetch the hide.”

And Jethro drives off, with Samuel looking after him, rubbing his nose.  “No bill,” says the jury—­if you can get Samuel into court.  But you can’t.  Even Moses Hatch can get nothing out of Samuel, who then talks Jacksonian principles and the nights of an American citizen.

Let us pursue this matter a little farther, and form a committee of investigation.  Where did Mr. Todd learn anything about Jacksonian principles?  From Mr. Samuel Price, whom they have spoken of for Moderator.  And where did Mr. Price learn of these principles?  Any one in Coniston will tell you that Mr. Price makes a specialty of orators and oratory; and will hold forth at the drop of a hat in Jonah Winch’s store or anywhere else.  Who is Mr. Price?  He is a tall, sallow young man of eight and twenty, with a wedge-shaped face, a bachelor and a Methodist, who farms in a small way on the southern slope, and saves his money.  He has become almost insupportable since they have named him for Moderator.