rail, held his new gold watch
in one gloved hand, and tapped time to the band with the other.

XII

A narrow flight of rickety, dusty stairs conducted one from the dim,
lower region of the little stand through an opening in the floor of
the judge's aerie. There was a drop-door over the opening, held up
by a hasp.

Now came a thumping of resolute feet on the stairs; a head projected
just above the edge of the opening, and stopped there.

"President, trustees, and judges!" hailed a squeaky voice.

Cap'n Sproul recognized the speaker with an uncontrollable snort of
disgust.

It was Marengo Todd, most obnoxious of all that hateful crowd of the
Cap'n's "wife's relations"--the man who had misused the Cap'n's
honeymoon guilelessness in order to borrow money and sell him
spavined horses.

Marengo surveyed them gloomily from under a driving-cap visor huge
as a sugar-scoop. He flourished at them a grimy sheet of paper.

"Mister President, trustees, and judges, I've got here a dockyment
signed by seventeen--"

President Kitchen knew that Marengo Todd had been running his
bow-legs off all the forenoon securing signatures to a petition of
protest that had been inspired by Trustee Silas Wallace. The
president pushed away the hand that brandished the paper.

"What do you take this for--an afternoon readin'-circle?" he
demanded. "If you're goin' to start your hoss in this thirty-four
class you want to get harnessed. We're here to trot hosses, not to
peruse dockyments."

"This 'ere ain't no pome on spring," yelled Marengo, banging the dust
out of the floor with his whip-butt and courageously coming up one
step on the stairs. "It's a protest, signed by seventeen drivers,
and says if you start these events with them three old sofy pillers,
there, stuffed into plug hats, for judges, we'll take this thing
clear up to the Nayshunal 'Sociation and show up this fair management.
There, chaw on that!"

"Why, bless my soul!" chirruped the Honorable Bickford, "this man
seems very much excited. You'll have to run away, my good man! We're
very busy up here, and have no time to subscribe to any papers."

Mr. Bickford evidently believed that this was one of the daily
"touches" to which he had become accustomed.

"Don't ye talk to me like I was one of your salaried
spittoon-cleaners," squealed Marengo, emboldened by the hoarse and
encouraging whispers of Trustee Wallace in the dim depths below. The
name that much repetition