, drove up to the platform of the store
with the remark that "things were gittin' pretty hot down to the capital
in that franchise fight."

"Hain't you b'en sent for yet, Jake?" he cried, throwing his reins over
the backs of his sweating Morgans; "well, that's strange. Guess the
fight hain't as hot as we hear about. Jethro hain't had to call out his
best men."

"I'm a-goin' down if there's trouble," declared Jake, who consistently
ignored banter.

"Better git up and git," said Lem; "there's three out of the five
railroads against Truro, and Steve Merrill layin' low. Bije Bixby's
down there, and Heth Sutton, and Abner Parkinson, and all the big bugs.
Better get aboard, Jake."

At this moment the discussion was interrupted by the sight of Cynthia
Wetherell coming across the green with an open letter in her hand.

"It's a message from Uncle Jethro," she said.

The announcement was sufficient to warrant the sensation it produced on
all sides.

"'Tain't a letter from Jethro, is it?" exclaimed Sam Price, overcome by
a pardonable curiosity. For it was well known that one of Jethro's fixed
principles in life was embodied in his own motto, "Don't write--send."

"It's very funny," answered Cynthia, looking down at the paper with a
puzzled expression. "'Dear Cynthia: Judge Bass wished me to say to you
that he would be pleased if you and Will would come to the capital and
spend a week with him at the Pelican House, and see the sights. The
judge says Rias Richardson will tend store. Yours truly, P. Hartington.'
That's all," said Cynthia, looking up.

For a moment you could have heard a pine needle drop on the stoop. Then
Rias thrust his hands in his pockets and voiced the general sentiment.

"Well, I'll be--goldurned!" said he.

"Didn't say nothin' about Jake?" queried Lem.

"No," answered Cynthia, "that's all--except two pieces of cardboard with
something about the Truro Railroad and our names. I don't know what they
are." And she took them from the envelope.

"Guess I could tell you if I was pressed," said Lem, amid a shout of
merriment from the group.

"Air you goin', Will?" said Sam Price, pausing with his foot on the step
of his buggy, that he might have the complete news before he left.

"Godfrey, Will," exclaimed Rigs, breathlessly, "you hain't a-goin' to
throw up a chance to stay a hull week at the Pelican, be you?" The mere
possibility of refusal overpowered Rias.

Those who are familiar with that deligh