“Goin' in, be you, Peleg?” inquired Mr. Bixby.
Mr. Hartington shook his head.
“Will and me had a notion to see somethin' of the show,” said Mr. Bixby, almost apologetically. “I kep' my ticket.”
“Well,” said Mr. Hartington, reflectively, “I guess you'll find some of the show left. That hain't b'en hurt much, so far as I can ascertain.”
The next afternoon, when Mr. Isaac D. Worthington happened to be sitting alone in the office of the Truro Railroad at the capital, there came a knock at the door, and Mr. Bijah Bixby entered. Now, incredible as it may seem, Mr. Worthington did not know Mr. Bixby—or rather, did not remember him. Mr. Worthington had not had at that time much of an experience in politics, and he did not possess a very good memory for faces.
Mr. Bixby, who had, as we know, a confidential and winning manner, seated himself in a chair very close to Mr. Worthington—somewhat to that gentleman's alarm. “How be you?” said Bijah, “I-I've got a little bill here—you understand.”
Mr. Worthington didn't understand, and he drew his chair away from Mr. Bixby's.
“I don't know anything about it, sir,” answered the president of the Truro Railroad, indignantly; “this is neither the manner nor the place to present a bill. I don't want to see it.”
Mr. Bixby moved his chair up again. “Callate you will want to see this bill, Mr. Worthington,” he insisted, not at all abashed. “Jethro Bass sent it—you understand—it's engrossed.”
Whereupon Mr. Bixby drew from his capacious pocket a roll, tied with white ribbon, and pressed it into Mr. Worthington's hands. It was the Truro Franchise Bill.