“I dunno why pa’son be ’lowed ter vote,” said Joe Bassett, as he sprawled on the protruding roots of a tree; two mountaineers perched hard by on the tongue of an ox-wagon from which the team had been released, and a third reclined on a saddle which he had thrown upon the ground. “Pa’son can’t run fur nuthin’,” continued Bassett; “he can’t go ter the Legislatur’, nor nuthin’, nor be sher’ff. They don’t let preachers hold office, nor butchers set on a crim’nal jury,”—thus seeking in his ignorance to reconcile the incongruities and oddities of the law. “Pa’son oughter be a-studyin’ ’bout a seat ’mongst the angels, stiddier gittin’ registered ’mongst the qualified voters o’ the deestric’,” said Gideon Dake, who always confirmed Bassett’s views, or added corollary matter. “What be Teck Jepson a-bobbin’ ’bout fur, like a float on a fish-line?” demanded Bassett. “Actially a-stoppin’ the pa’son mighty nigh at the door of the forge. Looks ter be a-wrastlin’ in prayer with the old man,—in an’ about goin’ ter save the pa’son’s soul, fust thing ye know.” “Hain’t you-uns hearn,” said Dake, quickly seizing the opportunity to regale the professed gossip with a new story, “how turrible smitten Teck Jepson an’ Marcelly Strobe hev got, all of a suddint? An’ Teck air a-workin’ fur the lection like he war demented. I made him beg an’ beg _me_ fur nigh on ter a hour ter vote fur Eli,—like I hed counted on doin’ all the time. Now Teck’s argufyin’ with the pa’son.” “Every time I hear o’ Marcelly Strobe she hev got another feller a-danglin’. ’Pears like ter me she _mus’_ be a-foolin’ some o’ them boys,” Bassett commented sourly. “Laws-a-massy, jes’ look at Teck,” said Dake, laughing slightly, albeit his teeth were closed hard upon the quid of tobacco in his mouth, “he hev gin the old man his arm an’ air jes’ a-draggin’ the pa’son up ter the polls! Wouldn’t trest the pa’son’s word ter vote fur Eli; gone in ter see the job well done. Waal, sir,”—he shifted his position as the young and the old man disappeared together within the door,—“that’s jes’ the way he done me. I couldn’t hev got away from him, arter I hed promised ter vote for Eli, ef I hed wanted ter.” There was a momentary hiatus in the conversation, when a tall, lank man, some twenty-eight or thirty years of age, with high cheek-bones and a sunburned, narrow face, joined the group. He had a bright, quick glance, and a smouldering spark of irritation aided its effect. His countenance wore a ready and propitiatory smile, the candidate’s smile, that seemed automatic in some sort, and not subject to the same springs that sufficed as motor for his other expressions. He flung himself upon a pile of shucks and hay, the forage of neighboring oxen, and he chewed a long straw as he talked. “Hy’re, boys,” he said, agreeably. “How do the chances o’ the ’lection ’pear ter you-uns?” For he was Joshua Nevins, a candidate for constable, and Eli Strobe’s much-feared rival. “Mighty well,” said Bassett, reassuringly.