Look over Sara Price's shoulder and you will see the name--Jethro Bass.

It bursts from the lips of Fletcher Bartlett himself--of Fletcher,
inflammable as gunpowder.

"Gentlemen, I withdraw as your candidate, and nominate a better and an
abler man,--Jethro Bass."

"Jethro Bass for Chairman of the Selectmen!"

The cry is taken up all over the meeting-house, and rises high above the
hiss of the sleet on the great windows. Somebody's got on the stove, to
add to the confusion and horror. The only man in the whole place who is
not excited is Jethro Bass himself, who sits in his chair regardless of
those pressing around him. Many years afterward he confessed to some one
that he was surprised--and this is true. Fletcher Bartlett had surprised
and tricked him, but was forgiven. Forty men are howling at the
moderator, who is pounding on the table with a blacksmith's blows.
Squire Asa Northcutt, with his arms fanning like a windmill from the
edge of the platform, at length shouts down everybody else--down to a
hum. Some listen to him: hear the words "infamous outrage"--"if Jethro
Bass is elected Selectman, Coniston will never be able to hold up her
head among her sister towns for very shame." (Momentary blank, for
somebody has got on the stove again, a scuffle going on there.) "I see
it all now," says the Squire--(marvel of perspicacity!) "Jethro Bass has
debased and debauched this town--" (blank again, and the squire points
a finger of rage and scorn at the unmoved offender in the chair) "he
has bought and intimidated men to do his bidding. He has sinned against
heaven, and against the spirit of that most immortal of documents--"
(Blank again. Most unfortunate blank, for this is becoming oratory, but
somebody from below has seized the squire by the leg.) Squire Northcutt
is too dignified and elderly a person to descend to rough and tumble,
but he did get his leg liberated and kicked Fletcher Bartlett in the
face. Oh, Coniston, that such scenes should take place in your town
meeting! By this time another is orating, Mr. Sam Price, Jackson
Democrat. There was no shorthand reporter in Coniston in those days,
and it is just as well, perhaps, that the accusations and recriminations
should sink into oblivion.

At last, by mighty efforts of the peace loving in both parties,
something like order is restored, the ballots are in the box, and Deacon
Lysander is counting them: not like another moderator I have heard of,
who spilled the