Palermo’s town house is like a roofed dry goods box, its clapboards unpainted and weather-beaten. It is perched on the gray ledges of Cross Hill in the centre of the town in order to accommodate the three villages, and here in lonely state, with no other building nearer than half a mile, it faces a buffet from every gale and a drenching from every storm. It is opened once each year--for the annual town meeting in March. Solomon Norton, who combined in his person the duties of Palermo’s hearse driver, sexton and custodian of public buildings, struggled with the rusty padlock on the outer door of the town house, and then stamped in and sniffed at the musty atmosphere. The March sun was just rising, and Solomon Norton was in good season. “Canned terbacker smoke and left-over speeches,” he growled. “I donno which smells wust.” He forced up the warped windows and began to sweep with a stout broom. The floor was thickly sprinkled with stale sawdust, in which were flotsam of charred matches, cigar stubs and pipe dottles. The crumpled ballots of last year’s election lay scattered everywhere. In a few moments the March breezes were playing with the dust clouds that rolled from open doors and windows. The early vanguard of Palermo’s voters was even then on hand--a few men grouped around horses of uncertain age, whose points and pedigrees they were discussing with animation. The first “shift” of the day had already been made, and a tall man with ginger-coloured whiskers was unbuckling the harness from a stump-tailed bay horse. The man who had traded with him was as briskly taking the harness from a rangy gray mare. “Now honest, Lem,” whined the tall man over his shoulder, “what’s the ‘out’ with her? ’Tain’t fair if you don’t tell me, if it’s anything dang’rous.” The other man chuckled, and the tall man repeated his plaintive appeal. But it was only after the transfer of harness had been completed that the ex-owner of the gray mare replied: “It’s understood there ain’t goin’ to be no backin’ outs?” he inquired, after he had again poked a swelling on the stump-tailed horse’s leg and noted with satisfaction that the animal did not wince. “I gen’-rally believe in lettin’ t’other feller find the ‘outs’ for hisself.” “I ain’t goin’ to cry-baby unless she’s a biter--and swappin’ biters ain’t no fair,” protested the tall man. “No danger of her bitin’ anything harder’n porridge with them teeth,” said the man called Lem, with great good humour. “I’d jest’s soon tell ye. She’s high pressur’.” “Wind’s broke, hey?” “’Ep!” “Bad?” The tall man eyed the gray mare with interest. “Wa-a-al,” drawled the other, buckling the ends of his reins and preparing to climb into his waggon, “she ain’t blowed out ary cylinder head yit, but she sartinly does whistle loud enough so’t your wife can git supper ready on to the table after she begins to hear ye comin’.”