“H-Heth in the charitable organization, too?” he asked.

“People told me I was a fool to believe in honesty, but I thought better of the lawmakers of my state.  I’ll tell you plainly what they said to me, sir.  They said, ‘Go to Jethro Bass.’”

“Well, so you have, hain’t you?  So you have.”

“Yes, I have.  I’ve come to appeal to you in behalf of the people of your section to allow that franchise to go through the present Legislature.”

“Er—­come to appeal, have you—­come to appeal?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Worthington, sitting down again; “I have come to-night to appeal to you in the name of the farmers and merchants of this region—­your neighbors,—­to use your influence to get that franchise.  I have come to you with the conviction that I shall not have appealed in vain.”

“Er—­appealed to Heth in the name of the farmers and merchants?”

“Mr. Sutton is Speaker of the House.”

“F-farmers and merchants elected him,” remarked Jethro, as though stating a fact.

Worthington coughed.

“It is probable that I made a mistake in going to Sutton,” he admitted.

“If I w-wanted to catch a pike, w-wouldn’t use a pin-hook.”

“I might have known,” remarked Worthington, after a pause, “that Sutton could not have been elected Speaker without your influence.”

Jethro did not answer that, but still remained sunk in his chair.  To all appearances he might have been asleep.

“W-worth somethin’ to the farmers and merchants to get that road through—­w-worth somethin’, ain’t it?”

Wetherell held his breath.  For a moment Mr. Worthington sat very still, his face drawn, and then he wet his lips and rose slowly.

“We may as well end this conversation, Mr. Bass,” he said, and though he tried to speak firmly his voice shook, “it seems to be useless.  Good night.”

He picked up his hat and walked slowly toward the door, but Jethro did not move or speak.  Mr. Worthington reached the door opened it, and the night breeze started the lamp to smoking.  Wetherell got up and turned it down, and the first citizen was still standing in the doorway.  His back was toward them, but the fingers of his left hand—­working convulsively caught Wetherell’s eye and held it; save for the ticking of the clock and the chirping of the crickets in the grass, there was silence.  Then Mr. Worthington closed the door softly, hesitated, turned, and came back and stood before Jethro.

“Mr. Bass,” he said, “we’ve got to have that franchise.”

William Wetherell glanced at the countryman who, without moving in his chair, without raising his voice, had brought the first citizen of Brampton to his knees.  The thing frightened the storekeeper, revolted him, and yet its drama held him fascinated.  By some subtle process which he had actually beheld, but could not fathom, this cold Mr. Worthington, this bank president who had given him sage advice, this preacher of political purity, had been reduced to a frenzied supplicant.  He stood bending over Jethro.