And now, when the meeting-house is crowded as it has never been before, when Jonah Winch has arranged his dinner booth in the corner, Deacon Lysander raps for order and the minister prays.  They proceed, first, to elect a representative to the General Court.  The Jacksonians do not contest that seat,—­this year,—­and Isaiah Prescott, fourteenth child of Timothy, the Stark hero, father of a young Ephraim whom we shall hear from later, is elected.  And now!  Now for a sensation, now for disorder and misrule!

“Gentlemen,” says Deacon Lysander, “you will prepare your ballots for the choice of the first Selectman.”

The Whigs have theirs written out, Deacon Moses Hatch.  But who has written out these others that are being so assiduously passed around?  Sam Price, perhaps, for he is passing them most assiduously.  And what name is written on them?  Fletcher Bartlett, of course; that was on the ticket.  Somebody is tricked again.  That is not the name on the ticket.  Look over Sara Price’s shoulder and you will see the name—­Jethro Bass.

It bursts from the lips of Fletcher Bartlett himself—­of Fletcher, inflammable as gunpowder.

“Gentlemen, I withdraw as your candidate, and nominate a better and an abler man,—­Jethro Bass.”

“Jethro Bass for Chairman of the Selectmen!”

The cry is taken up all over the meeting-house, and rises high above the hiss of the sleet on the great windows.  Somebody’s got on the stove, to add to the confusion and horror.  The only man in the whole place who is not excited is Jethro Bass himself, who sits in his chair regardless of those pressing around him.  Many years afterward he confessed to some one that he was surprised—­and this is true.  Fletcher Bartlett had surprised and tricked him, but was forgiven.  Forty men are howling at the moderator, who is pounding on the table with a blacksmith’s blows.  Squire Asa Northcutt, with his arms fanning like a windmill from the edge of the platform, at length shouts down everybody else—­down to a hum.  Some listen to him:  hear the words “infamous outrage”—­“if Jethro Bass is elected Selectman, Coniston will never be able to hold up her head among her sister towns for very shame.” (Momentary blank, for somebody has got on the stove again, a scuffle going on there.) “I see it all now,” says the Squire—­(marvel of perspicacity!) “Jethro Bass has debased and debauched this town—­” (blank again, and the squire points a finger of rage and scorn at the unmoved offender in the chair) “he has bought and intimidated men to do his bidding.  He has sinned against heaven, and against the spirit of that most immortal of documents—­” (Blank again.  Most unfortunate blank, for this is becoming oratory, but somebody from below has seized the squire by the leg.) Squire Northcutt is too dignified and elderly a person to descend to rough and tumble, but he did get his leg liberated and kicked Fletcher Bartlett in the face.  Oh, Coniston, that such scenes should take place in your town meeting!  By this time another is orating, Mr. Sam Price, Jackson Democrat.  There was no shorthand reporter in Coniston in those days, and it is just as well, perhaps, that the accusations and recriminations should sink into oblivion.