?"

Captain Jim grinned.

"That's Marshall Elliott--a mighty fine man with jest one streak of
foolishness in him. I s'pose you wondered what his object was in
turning himself into a sort of dime museum freak."

"Is he a modern Nazarite or a Hebrew prophet left over from olden
times?" asked Anne.

"Neither of them. It's politics that's at the bottom of his freak.
All those Elliotts and Crawfords and MacAllisters are dyed-in-the-wool
politicians. They're born Grit or Tory, as the case may be, and they
live Grit or Tory, and they die Grit or Tory; and what they're going to
do in heaven, where there's probably no politics, is more than I can
fathom. This Marshall Elliott was born a Grit. I'm a Grit myself in
moderation, but there's no moderation about Marshall. Fifteen years
ago there was a specially bitter general election. Marshall fought for
his party tooth and nail. He was dead sure the Liberals would win--so
sure that he got up at a public meeting and vowed that he wouldn't
shave his face or cut his hair until the Grits were in power. Well,
they didn't go in--and they've never got in yet--and you saw the result
today for yourselves. Marshall stuck to his word."

"What does his wife think of it?" asked Anne.

"He's a bachelor. But if he had a wife I reckon she couldn't make him
break that vow. That family of Elliotts has always been more stubborn
than natteral. Marshall's brother Alexander had a dog he set great
store by, and when it died the man actilly wanted to have it buried in
the graveyard, 'along with the other Christians,' he said. Course, he
wasn't allowed to; so he buried it just outside the graveyard fence,
and never darkened the church door again. But Sundays he'd drive his
family to church and sit by that dog's grave and read his Bible all the
time service was going on. They say when he was dying he asked his
wife to bury him beside the dog; she was a meek little soul but she
fired up at THAT. She said SHE wasn't going to be buried beside no
dog, and if he'd rather have his last resting place beside the dog than
beside her, jest to say so. Alexander Elliott was a stubborn mule, but
he was fond of his wife, so he give in and said, 'Well, durn it, bury
me where you please. But when Gabriel's trump blows I expect my dog to
rise with the rest of us, for he had as much soul as any durned Elliott
or Crawford or MacAllister that ever strutted.' Them was HIS parting
words. As for Marshal