Uncle Jerry was the wit of the town. It is hard to define wit. In Uncle Jerry’s case his appearance had much to do with the laughter which greeted him. He was a sad-looking, wild-eyed little man, whose “little body,” as he expressed it, “was tired carrying around his big brain.” “Mr. Moderator.” “Mr. Barnaby.” “It is true, as Sheriff Burse has said, that a man may drive through Hodgson Street safely. By using great care, by dodging rocks and sand-banks, and by the special favor of Divine Providence, he may live to drive through that street; but I would advise him, before attempting it, to place a good big insurance on his life, and to kiss his wife and children farewell. As has been said, Mr. Moderator, a man may drive through Hodgson street safely; a perfectly sober man may drive through a wood-lot, but--” In the uproar which followed, Uncle Jerry never finished his sentence. It was voted to repair Hodgson Street. The secret balloting, during the day, elected Hugh Maxwell Selectman, and the Baldwins failed in their efforts to force Jacob Sharp upon the voters. There was a proposition to increase the pay of the police from two dollars to two dollars and a half per night. There was much opposition to the increase, its general drift being that the policemen were already well paid, when Uncle Jerry was again recognized by the Moderator. Congressman Baldwin frowned, and a reflection of his frown was seen upon the face of the Moderator, who was obliged to recognize the mirth-provoking Barnaby. He immediately began a somewhat rambling oration, which he had been declaiming in his own house for weeks, and which was intended to set forth the faithful services of the policemen. The audience was soon convulsed with laughter, and it was impossible for the Moderator to check him, as almost everybody in the hall was encouraging him by laughter and applause. Uncle Jerry was thoroughly in earnest. He could see no occasion for mirth. “When all sounds of industry are stilled,” said Uncle Jerry, “when the fond mother lies asleep with the darling babe on her bosom,--” “Speak on the question, Mr. Barnaby!” roared the Moderator. “I am speaking on the question, Mr. Moderator--when the demon tongues of fire leap up in the basement, and threaten your lovely home, threaten to envelop in their horrible embrace all that you hold dearest on earth,--that fond wife and loving mother and that darling infant on the mother’s breast,--” “Come to the point, Mr. Barnaby!” “I am coming to the point, Mr. Moderator, just as fast as I can, but you make me lose my place. When the devouring flames, Mr. Moderator, threaten to embrace that fond wife and loving mother and darling infant on the mother’s breast,--it is the watchful eye of the vigilant policeman, Mr. Moderator--,”