And he trudged back up the hill to the quietude of his farm, with deep content.
He had been some hours asleep that night when vigorous poundings on his door awoke him, and when at last he appeared on his piazza he found a large and anxious delegation of citizens filling his yard.
"Cap'n," bleated one of the committee, "Broadway says there ain't any money to pay prizes with."
"Vouchers is all right. Money paid on contracts signed by your official secretary, that you elected unanimous," said the Cap'n, stoutly.
"We know it," cried the committeeman, "but we don't understand it."
"Then hunt up the man that made the contracts—Pote Tate," advised the selectman. "All the business I've done was to pay out the money. You know what stand I've took right along."
"We know it, Cap'n, and we ain't blamin' you—but we don't understand, and we can't find Consetena Tate. His folks don't know where he is. He's run away."
"Potes are queer critters," sighed the Cap'n, compassionately. He turned to go in.
"But how are we goin' to get the money to pay up for the sports, the fireworks, and things?"
"Them that hires fiddlers and dances all day and night must expect to pay said fiddlers," announced the Cap'n, oracularly. "I reckon you'll have to pass the hat for the fiddlers."