Joe Northcutt’s knees gave way under him, and he sat down on a sugar kettle.  Chester tightened up his reins so suddenly that his horse reared, while Jethro calmly climbed into the seat beside him and they drove off.  It was some time before Joe had recovered sufficiently to arise and repair to the scene of operations on the road.

It was Joe who brought the astounding news to the store that evening.  Chester was Jethro’s own candidate for senior Selectman!  Jethro himself had said so, that he would be happy to abdicate in Chester’s favor, and make it unanimous—­Chester having been a candidate so many times, and disappointed.

“Whar’s Chester?” said Lem Hallowell.

Joe pulled a long face.

“Just come from his house, and he hain’t done a lick of work sence noon time.  Jest sets in a corner—­won’t talk, won’t eat—­jest sets thar.”

Lem sat down on the counter and laughed until he was forced to brush the tears from his cheeks at the idea of Chester Perkins being Jethro’s candidate.  Where was reform now?  If Chester were elected, it would be in the eyes of the world as Jethro’s man.  No wonder he sat in a corner and refused to eat.

“Guess you’ll ketch it next, Will, for goin’ over to Harwich with Lem,” Joe remarked playfully to the storekeeper, as he departed.

These various occurrences certainly did not tend to allay the uneasiness of Mr. Wetherell.  The next afternoon, at a time when a slack trade was slackest, he had taken his chair out under the apple tree and was sitting with that same volume of Byron in his lap—­but he was not reading.  The humorous aspects of the doings of Mr. Bass did not particularly appeal to him now; and he was, in truth, beginning to hate this man whom the fates had so persistently intruded into his life.  William Wetherell was not, it may have been gathered, what may be called vindictive.  He was a sensitive, conscientious person whose life should have been in the vale; and yet at that moment he had a fierce desire to confront Jethro Bass and—­and destroy him.  Yes, he felt equal to that.

Shocks are not very beneficial to sensitive natures.  William Wetherell looked up, and there was Jethro Bass on the doorstep.

“G-great resource—­readin’—­great resource,” he remarked.

In this manner Jethro snuffed out utterly that passion to destroy, and another sensation took its place—­a sensation which made it very difficult for William Wetherell to speak, but he managed to reply that reading had been a great resource to him.  Jethro had a parcel in his hand, and he laid it down on the step beside him; and he seemed, for once in his life, to be in a mood for conversation.

“It’s hard for me to read a book,” he observed.  “I own to it—­it’s a little mite hard.  H-hev to kind of spell it out in places.  Hain’t had much time for readin’.  But it’s kind of pleasant to l’arn what other folks has done in the world by pickin’ up a book.  T-takes your mind off things—­don’t it?”