The music from across the street bellowed in louder blast, for the store door opened with a bang and Hiram Look came stamping in.
“Do me up a slab of cheese and plenty of crackers, Colonel Brickett,” he called. “Wider’n that,” he snapped as Brickett set his knife on the cheese. “Look’s Cornet Brass Band ain’t eatin’ no half rations so long as old Hime himself is on hand to buy for ’em.”
He beamed on the circle of faces about the stove, for the inspiration of his favourite tunes made him genial.
“How does that sound to you, old turkles?” he cried, with a backward jab of his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Hobbs’s hall. “It’s sort of wakin’ up Palermo, hey?”
“I suppose it will be good enough when they can play without soundin’ like bullfrogs with the croup,” returned Uncle Buck, sulkily. Hiram had come in at just the time when he had edged forward to put some leading questions to Mate Seekins. He turned to the sailor again.
“You was sayin’——” he began.
“You never heard nothin’ in your life before but a melodeon and a jew’s harp, you old Fiji,” shouted Hiram, thrusting forward close to the stove. “There’s about a half dozen of you old mossbacks that ain’t come to enough to appreciate what I’m doin’ for this place. But I’ve got the crowd with me. I’ll show ye in town meeting next March! I can run that band myself, so fur’s that comes to; but I’m goin’ to make some of you old hogs of taxpayers chip in to support it. I’m goin’ to have an article put in appropriating two hundred dollars for band concerts next summer, and I’ll carry it through.”
“This town won’t vote for no such dum foolishness,” retorted Buck. He turned to Seekins again, his curiosity mastering his spirit of controversy.
“You was sayin’ as how——”
“Bet you fifty, and put the money in Brickett’s hands right now,” bellowed Hiram, ever eager for opportunities to browbeat the old men of the village. He dug into his trousers pocket.