in Eri obligingly produced a black plug of smoking tobacco, and Mr.
Batcheldor bit off two-thirds and returned the balance. After adjusting
the morsel so that it might interfere in the least degree with his vocal
machinery, he drawled:

"I cal'late you ain't heard the news, Eri. Web Saunders has got his
original-package license. It come on the noon mail."

The Captain turned sharply toward the speaker. "Is that a fact?" he
asked. "Who told you?"

"See it myself. So did Squealer and a whole lot more. Web was showin' it
round."

"We was wonderin'," said Jabez Smalley, a member of the committee whose
standing was somewhat impaired, inasmuch as he went fishing occasionally
and was, therefore, obliged to miss some of the meetings, "what kind of
a fit John Baxter would have now. He's been pretty nigh distracted ever
sence Web started his billiard room, callin' it a 'ha'nt of sin' and a
whole lot more names. There ain't been a 'Come-Outers' meetin' 'sence
I don't know when that he ain't pitched into that saloon. Now, when he
hears that Web's goin' to sell rum, he'll bust a biler sure."

The committee received this prophecy with an hilarious shout of approval
and each member began to talk. Captain Eri took advantage of this
simultaneous expression of opinion to walk away. He looked in at the
window of the ticket-office, exchanged greetings with Sam Hardy, the
stationmaster, and then leaned against the corner of the building
furthest removed from Mr. Wixon and his friends, lit his pipe and puffed
thoughtfully with a troubled expression on his face.

From the clump of blackness that indicated the beginning of the West
Orham woods came a long-drawn dismal "toot"; then two shorter ones. The
committee sprang to its feet and looked interested. Sam Hardy came out
of the ticket office. The stage-driver, a sharp-looking boy of about
fourteen, with a disagreeable air of cheap smartness sticking out all
over him, left his seat in the shadow of Mr. Batcheldor's manly form,
tossed a cigarette stump away and loafed over to the vicinity of the
"depot wagon," which was backed up against the platform. Captain Eri
knocked the ashes from his pipe and put that service-stained veteran in
his pocket. The train was really "coming in" at last.

If this had been an August evening instead of a September one, both
train and platform would have been crowded. But the butterfly summer
maiden had flitted and, as is his wont, the summer man had flitted