The thin man crossed his legs and was beginning to speak, but the first selectman broke in savagely: "Now look here, mister, this ain't either a morgue, a receivin'-tomb, nor an undertaker's parlor. If you want to get buried and ain't got the price I'll lend it to you. If you want to start over again in life I'll pay for havin' your birth-notice put into the newspaper. But you want to say what you do want and get out of here. I've got some town business to 'tend to, and I ain't got any time to spend settin' up with corpses."
Again the man tried to speak. Again the Cap'n interrupted. "I ain't disputin' a thing you say," he cried. "I'm admittin' everything, 'cause I haven't got time to argue. You may have been dead nine times like a cat. I don't care. All is, you go along. You'll find accommodations at the tavern, the graveyard, or the town farm, whichever hits you best. I'm busy."
But when he pulled his paper of figures under his nose again, the thin man tapped his fleshless digit on the table.
"You're the first selectman, aren't you?" he demanded.
"That's what I be," returned the Cap'n, smartly.
"Well, then, you got to pay attention to town business when it is put before you. I've come here on town business. I used to live in this town."
"Was you buried here or was your remains taken away?" inquired the Cap'n, genially, hoping that satire might drive out this unwelcome disturber.
"Oh, I died all three times after I left this town," said the thin man, in matter-of-fact tones. "What I'm comin' at is this: my father gave the land to this town to build the school-house on out in the Crymble district. Deed said if the building was ever abandoned for school purposes for five years running, land and buildin' came back to estate. I came past that school-house to-day and I see it hasn't been used."
"We don't have school deestricks any more," explained the Cap'n. "We transport scholars to the village here. That's been done for six years and over."
"Then I claim the school-house and land," declared the thin man.