“If you are a friend of mine,” said that gentleman, “and if you have any regard for the fair name of this town, you will do so at once.”

Mr. Dodd departed precipitately, and Mr. Worthington began to pace the room, clasping his hands now in front of him, now behind him, in his agony:  repeating now and again various appellations which need not be printed here, which he applied in turn to the prudential committee, to his son, and to Cynthia Wetherell.

“I’ll run her out of Brampton,” he said at last.

“If you do,” said Mr. Flint, who had been watching him apparently unmoved, “you may have Jethro Bass on your back.”

“Jethro Bass?” shouted Mr. Worthington, with a laugh that was not pleasant to hear, “Jethro Bass is as dead as Julius Caesar.”

It was one thing for Mr. Dodd to promise so readily a meeting of the committee, and quite another to decide how he was going to get through the affair without any more burns and scratches than were absolutely necessary.  He had reversed the usual order, and had been in the fire—­now he was going to the frying-pan.  He stood in the street for some time, pulling at his tuft, and then made his way to Mr. Jonathan Hill’s feed store.  Mr. Hill was reading “Sartor Resartus” in his little office, the temperature of which must have been 95, and Mr. Dodd was perspiring when he got there.

“It’s come,” said Mr. Dodd, sententiously.

“What’s come?” inquired Mr. Hill, mildly.

“Isaac D.’s come, that’s what,” said Mr. Dodd.  “I hain’t b’en sleepin’ well of nights, lately.  I can’t think what we was about, Jonathan, puttin’ that girl in the school.  We’d ought to’ve knowed she wahn’t fit.”

“What’s the matter with her?” inquired Mr. Hill.

“Matter with her!” exclaimed his fellow-committeeman, “she lives with Jethro Bass—­she’s his ward.”

“Well, what of it?” said Mr. Hill, who never bothered himself about gossip or newspapers, or indeed about anything not between the covers of a book, except when he couldn’t help it.

“Good God!” exclaimed Mr. Dodd, “he’s the most notorious, depraved man in the state.  Hain’t we got to look out for the fair name of Brampton?”

Mr. Hill sighed and closed his book.

“Well,” he said; “I’d hoped we were through with that.  Let’s go up and see what Judge Graves says about it.”

“Hold on,” said Mr. Dodd, seizing the feed dealer by the coat, “we’ve got to get it fixed in our minds what we’re goin’ to do, first.  We can’t allow no notorious people in our schools.  We’ve got to stand up to the jedge, and tell him so.  We app’inted her on his recommendation, you know.”

“I like the girl,” replied Mr. Hill.  “I don’t think we ever had a better teacher.  She’s quiet, and nice appearin’, and attends to her business.”

Mr. Dodd pulled his tuft, and cocked his head.

“Mr. Worthington holds a note of yours, don’t he, Jonathan?”