When William Wetherell and Cynthia had reached the last turn in the road in
Northcutt's woods, quarter of a mile from Coniston, they met the nasal Mr.
Samuel Price driving silently in the other direction. The word "silently" is
used deliberately, because to Mr. Price appertained a certain ghostlike quality
of flitting, and to Mr. Price's horse and wagon likewise. He drew up for a brief
moment when he saw Wetherell.
"Wouldn't hurry back if I was you, Will."
Mr. Price leaned out of the wagon.
"Bije has come over from Clovelly to spy around a little mite."
It was evident from Mr. Price's manner that he regarded the storekeeper as a
member of the reform party.
"What did he say, Daddy?" asked Cynthia, as Wetherell stood staring after the
flitting buggy in bewilderment.
"I haven't the faintest idea, Cynthia," answered her father, and they walked
"Don't you know who 'Bije' is?
"No," said her father, "and I don't care."
It was almost criminal ignorance for a man who lived in that part of the
country not to know Bijah Bixby of Clovelly, who was paying a little social
visit to Coniston that day on his way home from the state capital,—tending, as
it were, Jethro's flock. Still, Wetherell must be excused because he was an
impractical literary man with troubles of his own. But how shall we chronicle
Bijah's rank and precedence in the Jethro army, in which there are neither
shoulder-straps nor annual registers? To designate him as the Chamberlain of
that hill Rajah, the Honorable Heth Sutton, would not be far out of the way. The
Honorable Heth, whom we all know and whom we shall see presently, is the man of
substance and of broad acres in Clovelly: Bijah merely owns certain mortgages in
that town, but he had created the Honorable Heth (politically) as surely as
certain prime ministers we could name have created their sovereigns. The
Honorable Heth was Bijah's creation, and a grand creation he was, as no one will
doubt when they see him.
Bijah—as he will not hesitate to tell you—took Heth down in his pocket to the
Legislature, and has more than once delivered him, in certain blocks of five and
ten, and four and twenty, for certain considerations. The ancient Song of
Sixpence applies to Bijah, but his pocket was generally full of proxies instead
of rye, and the Honorable Heth was frequently one of the four and twenty
blackbirds. In short, Bijah was the working bee, and the Honorable Heth the
I do not know why I have dwelt so long on such a minor character as Bijah,
except that the man fascinates me. Of all the lieutenants in the state, his
manners bore the closest resemblance to those of Jethro Bass. When he walked
behind Jethro in the corridors of the Pelican, kicking up his heels behind, he
might have been taken for Jethro's shadow. He was of a good height and size,
smooth-shaven, with little eyes that kindled, and his mouth moved not at all
when he spoke: unlike Jethro, he "used" tobacco.
When Bijah had driven into Coniston village and hitched his wagon to the
rail, he went direct to the store. Chester Perkins and others were watching him
with various emotions from the stoop, and Bijah took a seat in the midst of
them, characteristically engaging in conversation without the usual conventional
forms of greeting, as if he had been there all day.
"H-how much did you git for your wool, Chester—h-how much?"
"Guess you hain't here to talk about wool, Bije," said Chester, red with
"Kind of neglectin' the farm lately, I hear," observed Bijah.
"Jethro Bass sent you up to find out how much I was neglectin' it," retorted
Chester, throwing all caution to the winds.
"Thinkin' of upsettin' Jethro, be you? Thinkin' of upsettin' Jethro?"
remarked Bije, in a genial tone.
"Folks in Clovelly hain't got nothin' to do with it, if I am," said Chester.
"Leetle early for campaignin', Chester, leetle early."
"We do our campaignin' when we're a mind to."
Bijah looked around.
"Well, that's funny. I could have took oath I seed Rias Richardson here."
There was a deep silence.
"And Sam Price," continued Bijah, in pretended astonishment, "wahn't he
settin' on the edge of the stoop when I drove up?"
Another silence, broken only by the enraged breathing of Chester, who was
unable to retort. Moses Hatch laughed. The discreet departure of these gentlemen
certainly had its comical side.
"Rias as indoostrious as ever, Mose?" inquired Bijah.
"He has his busy times," said Mose, grinning broadly.
"See you've got the boys with their backs up, Chester," said Bijah.
"Some of us are sick of tyranny," cried Chester; "you kin tell that to Jethro
Bass when you go back, if he's got time to listen to you buyin' and sellin' out
"Hear Jethro's got the Grand Gulf Road in his pocket to do as he's a mind to
with," said Moses, with a view to drawing Bijah out. But the remark had exactly
the opposite effect, Bijah screwing up his face into an expression of
extraordinary secrecy and cunning.
"How much did you git out of it, Bije?" demanded Chester.
"Hain't looked through my clothes yet," said Bijah, his face screwed up
tighter than ever. "N-never look through my clothes till I git home, Chester, it
It has become painfully evident that Mr. Bixby is that rare type of man who
can sit down under the enemy's ramparts and smoke him out. It was a rule of
Jethro's code either to make an effective departure or else to remain and compel
the other man to make an ineffective departure. Lem Hallowell might have coped
with him; but the stage was late, and after some scratching of heads and delving
for effectual banter (through which Mr. Bixby sat genial and unconcerned),
Chester's followers took their leave, each choosing his own pretext.
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
"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?"
"You don't pay no attention to what they say?"
"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."
"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.
"But I had no money in my pocket," said Wetherell, perplexedly. And then,
gaining, indignation, "Take this to the man who sent you, and give it back to
But Bijah merely whispered caressingly in his ear, "Nobody sent me,—you
understand,—nobody sent me," and was gone. Wetherell stood for a moment, dazed
by the man's audacity, and then, hurrying to the front stoop, the money still in
his hand, he perceived Mr. Bixby in the sunlit road walking, Jethro-fashion,
toward Ephraim Prescott's harness shop.
"Why, Daddy," said Cynthia, coming in from the garden, "where did you get all
that money? Your troubles must feel better."
"It is not mine," said Wetherell, starting. And then, quivering with anger
and mortification, he sank down on the stoop to debate what he should do.
"Is it somebody else's?" asked the child, presently.
"Then why don't you give it back to them, Daddy?"
How was Wetherell to know, in his fright, that Mr. Bixby had for once
indulged in an overabundance of zeal in Jethro's behalf? He went to the door,
laughter came to him across the green from the harness shop, and his eye
following the sound, fastened on Bijah seated comfortably in the midst of the
group there. Bitterly the storekeeper comprehended that, had he possessed
courage, he would have marched straight after Mr. Bixby and confronted him
before them all with the charge of bribery. The blood throbbed in his temples,
and yet he sat there, trembling, despising himself, repeating that he might have
had the courage if Jethro Bass had not bought the mortgage. The fear of the man
had entered the storekeeper's soul.
"Does it belong to that man over there?" asked Cynthia.
"I'll take it to him, Daddy," and she held out her hand.
"Not now," Wetherell answered nervously, glancing at the group. He went into
the store, addressed an envelope to "Mr. Bijah Bixby of Clovelly," and gave it
to Cynthia. "When he comes back for his wagon, hand it to him," he said, feeling
that he would rather, at that moment, face the devil himself than Mr. Bixby.
Half an hour later, Cynthia gave Mr. Bixby the envelope as he unhitched his
horse; and so deftly did Bijah slip it into his pocket, that he must certainly
have misjudged its contents. None of the loungers at Ephraim's remarked the
If Jethro had indeed instructed Bijah to look after his flock at Coniston, it
was an ill-conditioned move, and some of the flock resented it when they were
quite sure that Bijah was climbing the notch road toward Clovelly. The
discussion (from which the storekeeper was providentially omitted) was in full
swing when the stage arrived, and Lem Hallowell's voice silenced the uproar. It
was Lem's boast that he never had been and never would be a politician.
"Why don't you folks quit railin' against Jethro and do somethin'?" he said.
"Bije turns up here, and you all scatter like a flock of crows. I'm tired of
makin' complaints about that Brampton road, and to-day the hull side of it give
way, and put me in the ditch. Sure as the sun rises to-morrow, I'm goin' to make
trouble for Jethro."
"What be you a-goin' to do, Lem?"
"Indict the town," replied Lem, vigorously. "Who is the town? Jethro, hain't
he? Who has charge of the highways? Jethro Bass, Chairman of the Selectmen. I've
spoke to him, time and agin, about that piece, and he hain't done nothin'.
To-night I go to Harwich and git the court to app'int an agent to repair that
road, and the town'll hev to pay the bill."
The boldness of Lem's intention for the moment took away their breaths, and
then the awe-stricken hush which followed his declaration was broken by the
sound of Chester's fist hammering on the counter.
"That's the sperrit," he cried; "I'll go along with you, Lem."
"No, you won't," said Lem, "you'll stay right whar you be."
"Chester wants to git credit for the move," suggested Sam Price, slyly.
"It's a lie, Sam Price," shouted Chester. "What made you sneak off when Bije
"Didn't sneak off," retorted Sam, indignantly, through his nose; "forgot them
eggs I left to home."
"Sam," said Lem, with a wink at Moses Hatch, "you hitch up your hoss and
fetch me over to Harwich to git that indictment. Might git a chance to see that
"Wal, now, I wish I could, Lem, but my hoss is stun lame."
There was a roar of laughter, during which Sam tried to look unconcerned.
"Mebbe Rias'll take me over," said Lem, soberly. "You hitch up, Rias?"
"He's gone," said Joe Northcutt, "slid out the door when you was speakin' to
"Hain't none of you folks got spunk enough to carry me over to see the
jedge?" demanded Lem; "my horses ain't fit to travel to-night." Another silence
followed, and Lem laughed contemptuously but good-naturedly, and turned on his
heel. "Guess I'll walk, then," he said.
"You kin have my white hoss, Lem," said Moses Hatch.
"All right," said Lem; "I'll come round and hitch up soon's I git my supper."
An hour later, when Cynthia and her father and Millicent Skinner—who
condescended to assist in the work and cooking of Mr. Wetherell's household—were
seated at supper in the little kitchen behind the store, the head and shoulders
of the stage-driver were thrust in at the window, his face shining from its
evening application of soap and water. He was making eyes at Cynthia.
"Want to go to Harwich, Will?" he asked.
William set his cup down quickly.
"You hain't afeard, be you?" he continued. "Most folks that hasn't went West
or died is afeard of Jethro Bass."
"Daddy isn't afraid of him, and I'm not," said Cynthia.
"That's right, Cynthy," said Lem, leaning over and giving a tug to the
pigtail that hung down her back; "there hain't nothin' to be afeard of."
"I like him," said Cynthia; "he's very good to me."
"You stick to him, Cynthy," said the stage driver.
It may readily be surmised that Mr. Wetherell did not particularly wish to
make this excursion, the avowed object of which was to get Mr. Bass into
trouble. But he went, and presently he found himself jogging along on the
mountain road to Harwich. From the crest of Town's End ridge they looked upon
the western peaks tossing beneath a golden sky. The spell of the evening's
beauty seemed to have fallen on them both, and for a long time Lem spoke not a
word, and nodded smilingly but absently to the greetings that came from the farm
"Will," he said at last, "you acted sensible. There's no mite of use of your
gettin' mixed up in politics. You're too good for 'em."
"Too good!" exclaimed the storekeeper.
"You're eddicated," Lem replied, with a tactful attempt to cover up a
deficiency; "you're a gentleman, ef you do keep store."
Lemuel apparently thought that gentlemen and politics were contradictions. He
began to whistle, while Wetherell sat and wondered that any one could be so
care-free on such a mission. The day faded, and went out, and the lights of
Harwich twinkled in the valley. Wetherell was almost tempted to mention his
trouble to this man, as he had been to Ephraim: the fear that each might think
he wished to borrow money held him back.
"Jethro's all right," Lem remarked, "but if he neglects the road, he's got to
stand for it, same's any other. I writ him twice to the capital, and give him
fair warning afore he went. He knows I hain't doin' of it for politics. I've
often thought," Lem continued, "that ef some smart, good woman could have got
hold of him when he was young, it would have made a big difference. What's the
"Have you room enough?"
"I guess I've got the hull seat," said Lem. "As I was sayin', if some able
woman had married Jethro and made him look at things a little mite different, he
would have b'en a big man. He has all the earmarks. Why, when he comes back to
Coniston, them fellers'll hunt their holes like rabbits, mark my words."
"You don't think—"
"Don't think what?"
"I understand he holds the mortgages of some of them," said Wetherell.
"Shouldn't blame him a great deal ef he did git tired and sell Chester out
soon. This thing happens regular as leap year."
"Jethro Bass doesn't seem to frighten you," said the storekeeper.
"Well," said Lem, "I hain't afeard of him, that's so. For the life of me, I
can't help likin' him, though he does things that I wouldn't do for all the
power in Christendom. Here's Jedge Parkinson's house."
Wetherell remained in the wagon while Lemuel went in to transact his
business. The judge's house, outlined in the starlight, was a modest dwelling
with a little porch and clambering vines, set back in its own garden behind a
picket fence. Presently, from the direction of the lines of light in the
shutters, came the sound of voices, Lem's deep and insistent, and another,
pitched in a high nasal key, deprecatory and protesting. There was still
another, a harsh one that growled something unintelligible, and Wetherell
guessed, from the fragments which he heard, that the judge before sitting down
to his duty was trying to dissuade the stage driver from a step that was
foolhardy. He guessed likewise that Lem was not to be dissuaded. At length a
silence followed, then the door swung open, and three figures came down the
"Like to make you acquainted with Jedge Abner Parkinson, Mr. Wetherell, and
Jim Irving. Jim's the sheriff of Truro County, and I guess the jedge don't need
any recommendation as a lawyer from me. You won't mind stayin' awhile with the
jedge while Jim and I go down town with the team? You're both literary folks."
Wetherell followed the judge into the house. He was sallow, tall and spare
and stooping, clean-shaven, with a hooked nose and bright eyes—the face of an
able and adroit man, and he wore the long black coat of the politician-lawyer.
The room was filled with books, and from these Judge Parkinson immediately took
his cue, probably through a fear that Wetherell might begin on the subject of
Lemuel's errand. However, it instantly became plain that the judge was a true
book lover, and despite the fact that Lem's visit had disturbed him not a
little, he soon grew animated in a discussion on the merits of Sir Walter Scott,
paced the room, pitched his nasal voice higher and higher, covered his table
with volumes of that author to illustrate his meaning. Neither of them heard a
knock, and they both stared dumfounded at the man who filled the doorway.
It was Jethro Bass!
He entered the room with characteristic unconcern, as if he had just left it
on a trivial errand, and without a "How do you do?" or a "Good evening," parted
his coat tails, and sat down in the judge's armchair. The judge dropped the
volume of Scott on the desk, and as for Wetherell, he realized for once the full
meaning of the biblical expression of a man's tongue cleaving to the roof of his
mouth; the gleam of one of Jethro's brass buttons caught his eye and held it
"Literary talk, Judge?" said Jethro. "D-don't mind me—go on."
"Thought you were at the capital," said the judge, reclaiming some of his
"Good many folks thought so," answered Jethro, "g-good many folks."
There was no conceivable answer to this, so the judge sat down with an
affectation of ease. He was a man on whom dignity lay heavily, and was not a
little ruffled because Wetherell had been a witness of his discomfiture. He
leaned back in his chair, then leaned forward, stretching his neck and clearing
his throat, a position in which he bore a ludicrous resemblance to a turkey
"Most through the Legislature?" inquired the judge.
"'Bout as common," said Jethro.
There was a long silence, and, forgetful for the moment of his own
predicament, Wetherell found a fearful fascination in watching the contortions
of the victim whose punishment was to precede his. It had been one of the
delights of Louis XI to contemplate the movements of a certain churchman whom he
had had put in a cage, and some inkling of the pleasure to be derived from this
pastime of tyrants dawned on Wetherell. Perhaps the judge, too, thought of this
as he looked at "Quentin Durward" on the table.
"I was just sayin' to Lem Hallowell," began the judge, at last, "that I
thought he was a little mite hasty—"
"Er—indicted us, Judge?" said Jethro.
The judge and Wetherell heard the question with different emotions. Mr.
Parkinson did not seem astonished at the miracle which had put Jethro in
possession of this information, but heaved a long sigh of relief, as a man will
when the worst has at length arrived.
"I had to, Jethro—couldn't help it. I tried to get Hallowell to wait till you
come back and talk it over friendly, but he wouldn't listen; said the road was
dangerous, and that he'd spoken about it too often. He said he hadn't anything
"Didn't come in to complain," said Jethro, "didn't come in to complain. Road
is out of repair. W-what's the next move?"
"I'm sorry, Jethro—I swan I'm sorry." He cleared his throat. "Well," he
continued in his judicial manner, "the court has got to appoint an agent to
repair that road, the agent will present the bill, and the town will have to pay
the bill—whatever it is. It's too bad, Jethro, that you have allowed this to be
"You say you've got to app'int an agent?"
"Have you app'inted one?"
"G-got any candidates?"
The judge scratched his head.
"Well, I don't know as I have."
"Well, have you?"
"No," said the judge.
"A-any legal objection to my bein' app'inted?" asked Jethro.
The judge looked at him and gasped. But the look was an involuntary tribute
"Well," he said hesitatingly, "I don't know as there is, Jethro. No, there's
no legal objection to it."
"A-any other kind of objection?" said Jethro.
The judge appeared to reflect.
"Well, no," he said at last, "I don't know as there is."
"Well, is there?" said Jethro, again.
"No," said the judge, with the finality of a decision. A smile seemed to be
pulling at the corners of his mouth.
"Well, I'm a candidate," said Jethro.
"Do you tell me, Jethro, that you want me to appoint you agent to fix that
"I-I'm a candidate."
"Well," said the judge, rising, "I'll do it."
"When?" said Jethro, sitting still.
"I'll send the papers over to you within two or three days.
"O-ought to be done right away, Judge. Road's in bad shape."
"Well, I'll send the papers over to you to-morrow."
"How long—would it take to make out that app'intment—how long?"
"It wouldn't take but a little while."
"I'll wait," said Jethro.
"Do you want to take the appointment along with you to-night?" asked the
judge, in surprise.
"G-guess that's about it."
Without a word the judge went over to his table, and for a while the silence
was broken only by the scratching of his pen.
"Er—interested in roads,—Will,—interested in roads?"
The judge stopped writing to listen, since it was now the turn of the other
"Not particularly," answered Mr. Wetherell, whose throat was dry.
"C-come over for the drive—c-come over for the drive?"
"Yes," replied the storekeeper, rather faintly.
"H-how's Cynthy?" said Jethro.
The storekeeper was too astonished to answer. At that moment there was a
heavy step in the doorway, and Lem Hallowell entered the room. He took one long
look at Jethro and bent over and slapped his hand on his knee, and burst out
"So here you be!" he cried. "By Godfrey! ef you don't beat all outdoors,
Jethro. Wal, I got ahead of ye for once, but you can't say I didn't warn ye.
Come purty nigh bustin' the stage on that road today, and now I'm a-goin' to hev
an agent app'inted."
"W-who's the agent?" said Jethro.
"We'll git one. Might app'int Will, there, only he don't seem to want to get
mixed up in it."
"There's the agent," cried the judge, holding out the appointment to Jethro.
"Wh-what?" ejaculated Lem.
Jethro took the appointment, and put it in his cowhide wallet.
"Be you the agent?" demanded the amazed stage driver.
"C-callate to be," said Jethro, and without a smile or another word to any
one he walked out into the night, and after various exclamations of astonishment
and admiration, the stage driver followed.
No one, indeed, could have enjoyed this unexpected coup of Jethro's more than
Lem himself, and many times on their drive homeward he burst into loud and
unexpected fits of laughter at the sublime conception of the Chairman of the
Selectmen being himself appointed road agent.
"Will," said he, "don't you tell this to a soul. We'll have some fun out of
some of the boys to-morrow."
The storekeeper promised, but he had an unpleasant presentiment that he
himself might be one of the boys in question.
"How do you suppose Jethro Bass knew you were going to indict the town?" he
asked of the stage driver.
Lem burst into fresh peals of laughter; but this was something which he did
not attempt to answer.