"Well, Pole, keep your politics and your weights in order. Send me the lamb."
The butcher smiled as Mrs. Ann turned away. Whether the lady of Grey Pine was conscious of having bought a vote or not, it was pretty clear to her nephew that Peter Pole's weights would not be further questioned as long as his politics were Democratic.
When his aunt had gone, John called Bill Pole out of the shop and said, "There's to be no swimming for a week, for any of us. Where are the other fellows?"
"Guessed we would catch it. They're playing ball back of the church. I'll go along with you."
He was pleased to see how the others would take their deprivation of a swim in the September heat. They came on the other culprit's, who called to John to come and play. He was not so minded, and was in haste to get through with a disagreeable errand. As he hesitated, Pole eager to distribute the unpleasant news cried out, "The Squire says that we can't swim in the pool for a week—none of us. How do you fellows like that?"
"It's mighty mean of him."
"What's that?" said John. "He was right and you know it. I don't like it any better than you do—but—"
Bill Baynton, the youngest boy, broke in, "Who told the Squire what fellows was in it?"
"It wasn't Billy," said another lad; "he just kept on yelling you was dead."
"Look here," said Tom McGregor turning to John, "did you tell the Squire we fellows set it up?"