“Thinkin' of upsettin' Jethro, be you? Thinkin' of upsettin' Jethro?” remarked Bije, in a genial tone. “Folks in Clovelly hain't got nothin' to do with it, if I am,” said Chester. “Leetle early for campaignin', Chester, leetle early.” “We do our campaignin' when we're a mind to.” Bijah looked around. “Well, that's funny. I could have took oath I seed Rias Richardson here.” There was a deep silence. “And Sam Price,” continued Bijah, in pretended astonishment, “wahn't he settin' on the edge of the stoop when I drove up?” Another silence, broken only by the enraged breathing of Chester, who was unable to retort. Moses Hatch laughed. The discreet departure of these gentlemen certainly had its comical side. “Rias as indoostrious as ever, Mose?” inquired Bijah. “He has his busy times,” said Mose, grinning broadly. “See you've got the boys with their backs up, Chester,” said Bijah. “Some of us are sick of tyranny,” cried Chester; “you kin tell that to Jethro Bass when you go back, if he's got time to listen to you buyin' and sellin' out of railroads.” “Hear Jethro's got the Grand Gulf Road in his pocket to do as he's a mind to with,” said Moses, with a view to drawing Bijah out. But the remark had exactly the opposite effect, Bijah screwing up his face into an expression of extraordinary secrecy and cunning. “How much did you git out of it, Bije?” demanded Chester. “Hain't looked through my clothes yet,” said Bijah, his face screwed up tighter than ever. “N-never look through my clothes till I git home, Chester, it hain't safe.” It has become painfully evident that Mr. Bixby is that rare type of man who can sit down under the enemy's ramparts and smoke him out. It was a rule of Jethro's code either to make an effective departure or else to remain and compel the other man to make an ineffective departure. Lem Hallowell might have coped with him; but the stage was late, and after some scratching of heads and delving for effectual banter (through which Mr. Bixby sat genial and unconcerned), Chester's followers took their leave, each choosing his own pretext. In the meantime William Wetherell had entered the store by the back door--unperceived, as he hoped. He had a vehement desire to be left in peace, and to avoid politics and political discussions forever--vain desire for the storekeeper of Coniston. Mr. Wetherell entered the store, and to take his mind from his troubles, he picked up a copy of Byron: gradually the conversation on the stoop died away, and just as he was beginning to congratulate himself and enjoy the book, he had an unpleasant sensation of some one approaching him measuredly. Wetherell did not move; indeed, he felt that he could not--he was as though charmed to the spot. He could have cried aloud, but the store was empty, and there was no one to hear him. Mr. Bixby did not speak until he was within a foot of his victim's ear. His voice was very nasal, too. “Wetherell, hain't it?” The victim nodded helplessly.