When Israel Nudd, the postmaster, died, Elmerton found little difficulty in recommending his successor. The day after his funeral, the elders assembled at the usual place of meeting, the post-office piazza. This was a narrow platform running along one side of the post-office building, and commanding a view of the sea. A row of chairs stood along the wall on their hind legs. They might be supposed to have lost the use of their fore legs, simply because they never were used. In these chairs the elders sat, and surveyed the prospect. "Tide's makin'," said John Peavey. No one seemed inclined to contradict this statement. "Water looks rily," John Peavey continued. "Goin' to be a change o' weather." "I never see no sense in that," remarked Seth Weaver. "Why should a change of weather make the water rily beforehand? Besides, it ain't." "My Uncle Ammi lived to a hundred and two," said John Peavey, slowly, "and he never doubted it. You're allers contrary, Seth. If I said I had a nose on my face, you'd say it warn't so." "Wal, some might call it one," rejoined Seth, with a cautious glance. "I ain't fond of committin' myself." "Meetin' come to order!" said Salem Rock, interrupting this preliminary badinage. "Brether--I--I would say, gentlemen, we have met to recommend a postmaster for this village, in the room of Israel Nudd, diseased. What is your pleasure in this matter? I s'pose Homer'd ought to have it, hadn't he?" The conclave meditated. No one had the smallest doubt that Homer ought to have it, but it was not well to decide matters too hastily. "Homer's none too speedy," said Abram Cutter. "He gets to moonin' over the mail sometimes, and it seems as if you'd git Kingdom Come before you got the paper. But I never see no harm in Home." "Not a mite," was the general verdict. "Homer's as good as gingerbread," said Salem Rock, heartily. "He knows the business, ben in it sence he was a boy, and there's no one else doos. My 'pinion, he'd oughter have the job." He spoke emphatically, and all the others glanced at him with approval; but there was no hurry. The mail would not be in for half an hour yet. "There's the _Fidely_," said Seth Weaver. "Goin' up river for logs, I expect." A dingy tug came puffing by. As she passed, a sooty figure waved a salutation, and the whistle screeched thrice. Seth Weaver swung his hat in acknowledgment. "Joe Derrick," he said. "Him and me run her a spell together last year." "How did she run?" inquired John Peavey. "Like a wu'm with the rheumatiz," was the reply. "The logs in the river used to roll over and groan, to see lumber put together in such shape. She ain't safe, neither. I told Joe so when I got out. I says, 'It's time she was to her long home,' I says, 'but I don't feel no call to be one of the bearers,' I says. Joe's reckless. I expect he'll keep right on till she founders under him, and then walk ashore on his feet. They are bigger than some rafts I've seen, I tell him."