“Jethro Bass Republican Club come and packed the entrance,” explained Mr. Bixby with a wink.  “You understand, Will?  Go on, Peleg.”

“Sidewalk and street, too,” continued Mr. Hartington, slowly.  “First come along Ball of Towles, hollerin’ like blazes.  They crumpled him all up and lost him.  Next come old man Duncan himself.”

“Will kep’ Duncan,” Mr. Bixby interjected.

“That was wholly an accident,” exclaimed Mr. Wetherell, angrily.

“Will wahn’t born in the country,” said Mr. Bixby.

Mr. Hartington bestowed on the storekeeper a mournful look, and continued:—­

“Never seed Duncan sweatin’ before.  He didn’t seem to grasp why the boys was there.”

“Didn’t seem to understand,” put in Mr. Bixby, sympathetically.

“‘For God’s sake, gentlemen,’ says he, ‘let me in!  The Truro Bill!’ ’The Truro Bill hain’t in the theatre, Mr. Duncan,’ says Dan Everett.  Cussed if I didn’t come near laughin’.  ‘That’s “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” Mr. Duncan,’ says Dan.  ‘You’re a dam fool,’ says Duncan.  I didn’t know he was profane.  ‘Make room for Mr. Duncan,’ says Dan, ‘he wants to see the show.’  ’I’m a-goin’ to see you in jail for this, Everett,’ says Duncan.  They let him push in about half a rod, and they swallowed him.  He was makin’ such a noise that they had to close the doors of the theatre—­so’s not to disturb the play-actors.”

“You understand,” said Mr. Bixby to Wetherell.  Whereupon he gave another shake to Mr. Hartington, who had relapsed into a sort of funereal meditation.

“Well,” resumed that personage, “there was some more come, hollerin’ about the Truro Bill.  Not many.  Guess they’ll all have to git their wimmen-folks to press their clothes to-morrow.  Then Duncan wanted to git out again, but ’twan’t exactly convenient.  Callated he was suffocatin’—­seemed to need air.  Little mite limp when he broke loose, Duncan was.”

The Honorable Peleg stopped again, as if he were overcome by the recollection of Mr. Duncan’s plight.

“Er—­er—­Peleg!”

Mr. Hartington started.

“What’d they do?—­what’d they do?”

“Do?”

“How’d they git notice to ’em?”

“Oh,” said Mr. Hartington, “cussed if that wuhn’t funny.  Let’s see, where was I?  After awhile they went over t’other side of the street, talkin’ sly, waitin’ for the act to end.  But goldarned if it ever did end.”

For once Mr. Bixby didn’t seem to understand.

“D-didn’t end?”

“No,” explained Mr. Hartington; “seems they hitched a kind of nigger minstrel show right on to it—­banjos and thingumajigs in front of the curtain while they was changin’ scenes, and they hitched the second act right on to that.  Nobody come out of the theatre at all.  Funny notion, wahn’t it?”

Mr. Bixby’s face took on a look of extreme cunning.  He smiled broadly and poked Mr. Wetherell in an extremely sensitive portion of his ribs.  On such occasions the nasal quality of Bijah’s voice seemed to grow.