That intangible something had been in his face, in the poise of his body, in the straightening of his shoulders and the lift of his chin ever since he had walked out of the parlour of the Willard house. It is not surprising that the assembled voters of Palermo did not understand it, because Squire Phin did not wholly understand it himself. He passed among them with quiet greetings that made those upon whom they fell grow warm with pleasure and pride. Selfaggrandisement can bestow no such favours. The people of Palermo, unconsciously almost, had suddenly elevated their best citizen to the height his merit but not his modesty claimed. And through that subtle attribute that attaches to such elevations they were correspondingly proud of him. The voters closed in behind the two and followed them into the town house, mumbling surmises to account for this astonishing situation. “Politics makes strange bedfellers, so they say,” observed Deacon Burgess, squinting at the Squire and the feeble old man whom he was leading, “but if them two there don’t have nightmares and git to kickin’ each other it will be somethin’ to be talked about in words that ain’t laid down in the dictionary.” But the surge into the town house was promptly succeeded by a rush for outdoors. The bellow of band music summoned them. Fully appreciating what the dramatic stood for, Hiram Look had timed his arrival carefully. He wanted all the voters to witness it. His eight horses drew the band chariot, whose gilt and glass were resplendent, even through the mud-streakings. The showman drove, perched upon the high seat, his new silk hat flashing in the March sun. But the hat was dwarfed on that occasion. Simon Peak sat beside him, and for the first time since Palermo had known him Simon Peak was really erect. It was his initial appearance as drum-major of the “Look Cornet Brass Band.” His trousers were white, his coat was crimson, with huge yellow shoulder knots, and an absolutely gigantic bearskin shako towered from his head. When the big waggon swung into the town-house yard the voters got a peep at the new uniforms of the bandmen and, inspired by the gorgeous spectacle and by the lively music, broke into a cheer. Hiram’s grim features relaxed. He wheeled his horses skilfully and brought the big cart to a standstill opposite the crowded platform, twisted the reins about the brake bar, arose and removed his hat. The ruling passion of the mob is the same in Palermo as it is in the metropolis. “Speech!” yelled the crowd enthusiastically above the blare of the instruments.