Now Food for Worms.

Here I Lie, Like an Old Rum Puncheon, Marked, Numbered and Shooked, To be Raised at Last and Finished by the Hand of My Maker.

As Egypt knew, Usial Britt did not print for profit. He accepted no pay of any sort for the product of his press. When the spirit moved, or he felt that the occasion demanded comment in print, he "stuck" the worn type, composing directly from the case without first putting his thoughts on paper, and printed and issued a sheet which he t.i.tled _The Hornet_. Sometimes _The Hornet_ buzzed blandly--more often it stung savagely.

Vaniman obeyed his impulse; he went to the door and knocked. He had always found Usial Britt in a sociable mood.

"Who is it?" inquired the shoemaker.

"Vaniman of the bank."

"Leave your job, whatever it is, on the threshold, sir."

"I am not bringing you any work, Mr. Britt."

"Then kindly pa.s.s on; I'm in executive session, sir."

The grumble of the cogs and the squeak of the press went on.

So did Vaniman, after he had waited at the door for a few moments.

Squire Hexter had a corner of his table cleaned of paper litter, in readiness for the euchre game.

He was tilted back in his chair, smoking his blackened T. D. pipe, and a swinging boot was sc.r.a.ping to and fro along the spine of a fuzzy old dog whose head was meditatively lowered while he enjoyed the scratching.

The Squire called the old dog "Eli"; that name gave Hexter a frequent opportunity to turn his little joke about having owned another dog that he called "Uli" and presented to a brother lawyer as an appropriate gift.

The Squire had little dabs of whiskers on his cheeks like fluffs of cotton batting, and his wide mouth linked those dabs when he smiled.

He came forward promptly in his chair, slapped his palm on the waiting pack of cards, and cut for the deal while Vaniman was throwing off his coat.

"Judging by signs, as I came past Britt's shop, _The Hornet_ is getting ready to buzz again," said the cashier.

"Aye! I reckoned as much. I have looked across there from time to time to-day and have seen customers knocking in vain on the door. It's your deal, boy!"

Vaniman shuffled obediently.

"And there was a run-in this morning between your boss and his brother,"

observed the Squire, scratching a match. "And Eli, here, called my attention to the fact that two sun dogs, strangers to him, were chasing along with the sun all the forenoon. Signs of trouble, boy--sure signs!"

He sorted his cards. It was more of the Squire's regular line of humor to ascribe to Eli various sorts of comment and counsel.

"How crazy do you think Prophet Elias is?" inquired the young man, avoiding further reference to his employer.

"After listening many times to the testimony of expert alienists in court trials I have come to the conclusion that all the folks in the world are crazy, son, or else n.o.body is ever crazy. I don't think I'll express any opinion on the Prophet. I might find myself qualifying as an alienist expert. I'd hate to!"

After that mild rebuff Vaniman gave all his mind to the game--for when the Squire played euchre he wanted to attend strictly to the business in hand. And in the span of time between dusk and supper the two were rarely interrupted.

But on this afternoon they were out of luck.

Men came tramping up the screaking outside stairs that conducted to the office; the Squire had a room over Ward's general store.

The men were led into the office by Isaac Jones--"Gid-dap Ike," he was named--the driver of the mail stage between Egypt and the railroad at Levant.

For a moment Squire Hexter looked really alarmed. There were half a dozen men in the party and he was not accustomed to irruptions of numbers. Then his greeting smile linked his whisker tufts. Mr. Jones and his party pulled off their hats and by their demeanor of awkward dignity stood convicted as being members of a delegation formally presenting themselves.

"Hullo, boys! Have chairs. Excuse the momentary hesitation. I was afraid you had come after me with a soaped rope."

"I reckon we won't set," stated Mr. Jones. "And we'll be straight and to the point, seeing that a game is on. Squire Hexter, me and these gents represent the voters of Egypt. We ask you to accept the nomination to the legislature from this town for next session. So say I."

"So say we all!" chorused the other men.

The Squire set the thumb and forefinger of each hand into a whisker fluff and twisted a couple of spills, squinting at them. "The compliment is esteemed, boys. But the previousness is perplexing. This is February, and the primaries are not till June."

"Squire Hexter, it ain't too early to show a man in this town where he gets off. That man is Tasper Britt. He has had ten dollars' worth of telling to-day by 'Sniffer' Orne. But telling ain't showing. What do you say?"

The Squire gave Jones a whimsical wink and indicated the attentive Vaniman with a jab of the thumb. "S-s-sh! Look out, or the rate of interest will go up."

Jones and his a.s.sociates scowled at the cashier, and Vaniman understood with added bitterness the extent of his vicarious atonement as Britt's mouthpiece at the wicket of the bank.

"The interest-payers of this town have been well dreened. But the voters--the _voters_, understand, still have a.s.sets. The voters have got to the point where they ain't afraid of Tasper Britt. The cashier of his bank can so report to him, if the said cashier so chooses--and, as cashier, probably will."

"The cashier will attend strictly and exclusively to his bank duties, and to nothing else," declared Vaniman, with heat.

"Hope you're enjoying 'em, such as they are of late," Jones retorted.

"But once again, what say, Squire Hexter?"

"Boys, you'd better get somebody else to sandpaper Tasper Britt with.

I'm not gritty enough."

"I'll come across with our full idea, Squire. It ain't simply to sandpaper Britt with that we want you to go. But we need some kind of legislation to help this town out of the hole. We don't know where we are. We can't raise money to pay state taxes, and we ain't getting our school money from the state, nor any share of the roads appropriation, nor--"

"I know, Ike," broke in the Squire, not requiring any legal posting from a layman. "But it's the lobbyist, instead of the legislator, who really counts at the state capital. I've been planning to do a little lobbying at the next session. I'll tell you now that I'll go, and, by hooking a clean collar around each ankle under my socks, I'll be prepared for a two weeks' stay. Send somebody else to work for the state and I'll go and work for Egypt."

"The voters want you," Jones insisted.

The Squire rapped his toe against the old dog at his feet. "What say, Eli?"

"Wuff!" the dog replied, emphatically.

"Can't go as a legislator, boys! Eli says 'No.'"

"This ain't no time for joking," growled the spokesman.

"Certainly not!" The Squire snapped back his retort briskly. He was serious. "I agree with you that this poor old town needs help and a hearing. But when I go to the State House I propose to wear out shoe leather instead of pants cloth. If you must rasp Britt, go get a real file!"

"Who in the blazes can we get?" demanded Jones, helplessly.

The Squire laid down the hand of cards which he had just picked up, thus signaling the end of the interview, impatiently motioning to Vaniman to play; then the notary narrowed his eyes and pondered.

The silence was broken by more screaking of the outside stairs.