Another idea danced into her excited brain; such a clever one she could hardly believe it hers. She might call Mr. Robinson to the wagon, and when he came close to the wheels she might say, “all of a sudden”: “Please take the flag out of the back of the wagon, Mr. Robinson. We have brought it here for you to keep overnight.” Mr. Simpson might be so surprised that he would give up his prize rather than be suspected of stealing. But as they neared the Robinsons' house there was not a sign of life to be seen; so the last plan, ingenious though it was, was perforce abandoned. The road now lay between thick pine woods with no dwelling in sight. It was growing dusk and Rebecca was driving along the lonely way with a person who was generally called Slippery Simpson. Not a thought of fear crossed her mind, save the fear of bungling in her diplomacy, and so losing the flag. She knew Mr. Simpson well, and a pleasanter man was seldom to be met. She recalled an afternoon when he came home and surprised the whole school playing the Revolutionary War in his helter-skelter dooryard, and the way in which he had joined the British forces and impersonated General Burgoyne had greatly endeared him to her. The only difficulty was to find proper words for her delicate mission, for, of course, if Mr. Simpson's anger were aroused, he would politely push her out of the wagon and drive away with the flag. Perhaps if she led the conversation in the right direction an opportunity would present itself. She well remembered how Emma Jane Perkins had failed to convert Jacob Moody, simply because she failed to “lead up” to the delicate question of his manner of life. Clearing her throat nervously, she began: “Is it likely to be fair tomorrow?” “Guess so; clear as a bell. What's on foot; a picnic?” “No; we're to have a grand flag-raising!” (“That is,” she thought, “if we have any flag to raise!”) “That so? Where?” “The three villages are to club together and have a rally, and raise the flag at the Centre. There'll be a brass band, and speakers, and the Mayor of Portland, and the man that will be governor if he's elected, and a dinner in the Grange Hall, and we girls are chosen to raise the flag.” “I want to know! That'll be grand, won't it?” (Still not a sign of consciousness on the part of Abner.) “I hope Mrs. Fogg will take Clara Belle, for it will be splendid to look at! Mr. Cobb is going to be Uncle Sam and drive us on the stage. Miss Dearborn--Clara Belle's old teacher, you know--is going to be Columbia; the girls will be the States of the Union, and oh, Mr. Simpson, I am the one to be the State of Maine!” (This was not altogether to the point, but a piece of information impossible to conceal.) Mr. Simpson flourished the whipstock and gave a loud, hearty laugh. Then he turned in his seat and regarded Rebecca curiously. “You're kind o' small, hain't ye, for so big a state as this one?” he asked.