"Not ornamental, but useful, John, in fact essential," said Mr. Grey, as John excused himself with the statement that he had to go to school. When he returned through the woods, about noon, to his relief he saw far down the avenue Mr. Grey and the gold-headed, tasselled cane he carried.
A little later Mr. Grey in the sun of a cool day early in October was walking along the village street in keen search of news of politics. He talked first to Pole, the butcher, who hearing that he was a cousin of Mrs. Penhallow assured him that the town would go solid for Buchanan. Then he met Billy, who was going a-fishing, having refused a wood-cutting job the rector offered.
"A nice fishing-rod that," said Grey.
Billy who was bird-witted and short of memory replied, "Mrs. Penhallow she gave me a dollar to pay pole-tax if I vote for—I guess it was Buchanan. I bought a nice fishing-pole."
Grey was much amused and agreeably instructed in regard to Mrs. Ann's sentiments, as he realized the simple fellow's mental condition. "A fishing-pole-tax—well—well—" and would tell John of his joke. "Any barber in this town?" he asked.
"Yes, there's Josiah," and Billy was no longer to be detained.
Mr. Grey mailed a letter, but the post-mistress would not talk politics and was busy. At last, wandering eastward, he came upon the only unoccupied person in Westways. Peter Lamb, slowly recovering strength, was seated on his mother's doorstep. His search for money had been defeated by the widow's caution, and the whisky craving was being felt anew.
"Good morning," said Grey. "You seem to be the only man here with nothing to do."
"Yes, sir. I've been sick, and am not quite fit to work. Sickness is hard on a working man, sir."
Grey, a kindly person, put his hand in his pocket, "Quite right, it is hard. How are the people here going to vote? I hope the good old ticket."