XI
The president of the "Smyrna Agricultural Fair and Gents' Driving Association" had been carrying something on his mind throughout the meeting of the trustees of the society—the last meeting before the date advertised for the fair. And now, not without a bit of apprehensiveness, he let it out.
"I've invited the Honer'ble J. Percival Bickford to act as the starter and one of the judges of the races," he announced.
Trustee Silas Wallace, superintendent of horses, had put on his hat. Now he took it off again.
"What!" he almost squalled.
"You see," explained the president, with eager conciliatoriness, "we've only got to scratch his back just a little to have him—"
"Why, 'Kittle-belly' Bickford don't know no more about hoss-trottin' than a goose knows about the hard-shell Baptist doctrine," raved Wallace, his little eyes popping like marbles.
"I don't like to hear a man that's done so much for his native town called by any such names," retorted the president, ready to show temper himself, to hide his embarrassment. "He's come back here and—"
Trustee Wallace now stood up and cracked his bony knuckles on the table, his weazened face puckered with angry ridges.
"I don't need to have a printed catalogue of what Jabe Bickford has done for this town. And I don't need to be told what he's done it for. He's come back from out West, where he stole more money than he knew what to do with, and—"