In the meantime William Wetherell had entered the store by the back door—­unperceived, as he hoped.  He had a vehement desire to be left in peace, and to avoid politics and political discussions forever—­vain desire for the storekeeper of Coniston.  Mr. Wetherell entered the store, and to take his mind from his troubles, he picked up a copy of Byron:  gradually the conversation on the stoop died away, and just as he was beginning to congratulate himself and enjoy the book, he had an unpleasant sensation of some one approaching him measuredly.  Wetherell did not move; indeed, he felt that he could not—­he was as though charmed to the spot.  He could have cried aloud, but the store was empty, and there was no one to hear him.  Mr. Bixby did not speak until he was within a foot of his victim’s ear.  His voice was very nasal, too.

“Wetherell, hain’t it?”

The victim nodded helplessly.

“Want to see you a minute.”

“What is it?”

“Where can we talk private?” asked Mr. Bixby, looking around.

“There’s no one here,” Wetherell answered.  “What do you wish to say?”

“If the boys was to see me speakin’ to you, they might git suspicious—­you understand,” he confided, his manner conveying a hint that they shared some common policy.

“I don’t meddle with politics,” said Wetherell, desperately.

“Exactly!” answered Bijah, coming even closer.  “I knowed you was a level-headed man, moment I set eyes on you.  Made up my mind I’d have a little talk in private with you—­you understand.  The boys hain’t got no reason to suspicion you care anything about politics, have they?”

“None whatever.”

“You don’t pay no attention to what they say?”

“None.”

You hear it?”

“Sometimes I can’t help it.”

“Ex’actly!  You hear it.”

“I told you I couldn’t help it.”

“Want you should vote right when the time comes,” said Bijah.  “D-don’t want to see such an intelligent man go wrong an’ be sorry for it—­you understand.  Chester Perkins is hare-brained.  Jethro Bass runs things in this state.”

“Mr. Bixby—­”

“You understand,” said Bijah, screwing up his face.  “Guess your watch is a-comin’ out.”  He tucked it back caressingly, and started for the door—­the back door.  Involuntarily Wetherell put his hand to his pocket, felt something crackle under it, and drew the something out.  To his amazement it was a ten-dollar bill.

“Here!” he cried so sharply in his fright that Mr. Bixby, turned around.  Wetherell ran after him.  “Take this back!”

“Guess you got me,” said Bijah.  “W-what is it?”

“This money is yours,” cried Wetherell, so loudly that Bijah started and glanced at the front of the store.

“Guess you made some mistake,” he said, staring at the storekeeper with such amazing innocence that he began to doubt his senses, and clutched the bill to see if it was real.