Mr. Soloman Bangs was the chairman of the Orham school-committee. He was a short, stout man with sandy side-whiskers and a bald head. He received them with becoming condescension, and asked if they wouldn't sit down.
“Why, I've got a little bus'ness I want to talk with you 'bout, Sol,” said the Captain. “Elsie, you set down here, and make yourself comf'table, and Sol and me 'll go inside for a minute.”
As he led the way into the little private office at the back of the building, and seemed to take it for granted that Mr. Bangs would follow, the latter gentleman couldn't well refuse. The private office was usually reserved for interviews with widows whose homestead mortgages were to be foreclosed, guileless individuals who had indorsed notes for friends, or others whose business was unpleasant and likely to be accompanied with weeping or profanity. Mr. Bangs didn't object to foreclosing a mortgage, but he disliked to have a prospective customer hear the dialogue that preceded the operation.
On this occasion the door of the sanctum was left ajar so that Elsie, although she did not try to listen, could not very well help hearing what was said.
She heard the Captain commenting on the late cranberry crop, the exceptionally pleasant weather of the past month, and other irrelevant subjects. Then the perfumes of the campaign cigars floated out through the doorway.
“Let's see,” said Captain Eri, “when's town meetin' day?”
“First Tuesday in December,” replied Mr. Bangs.
“Why, so 'tis, so 'tis. Gittin' pretty nigh, ain't it? What are you goin' to git off the school-committee for?”
“Me? Get off the committee? Who told you that?”
“Why, I don't know. You are, ain't you? Seems to me I heard Seth Wingate was goin' to run and he's from your district, so I thought, of course—”