“Hiram,” he blurted, “you listen to this:  ’Pers’nally appeared before me this fifteenth day of September Charles Gammon, of Smyrna, and deposes and declares that by divers arts, charms, spells, and magic, incantations, and evil hocus-pocus, one—­one—­’”

“Arizima,” prompted Mr. Gammon, mournfully.  The Cap’n gazed on him balefully, and resumed: 

“’One Arizima Orff has bewitched and bedeviled him, his cattle, his chattels, his belongings, including one calf, one churn, and various ox-chains.  It is therefore the opinion of the court that the first selectman of Smyrna, as chief municipal officer, should investigate this case under the law made and provided for the detection of witches, and for that purpose I have put this writing in the hands of Mr. Gammon that he may summon the proper authority, same being first selectman aforesaid.’”

“That is just how he said it to me,” confirmed “Cheerful Charles.”  “He said that it was a thing for the selectman to take hold of without a minute’s delay.  I wish you’d get your hat and start for my place now and forthwith.”

Cap’n Sproul paid no attention to the request.  He was searching the face of Hiram with eyes in which the light was growing lurid.

“I’m goin’ over to his office and hosswhip him, and I want you to come along and see me do it.”  He crumpled the paper into a ball, threw it into a corner, and stumped to the window.

“It’s just as I reckoned,” he raged.  “He was lookin’ out to see how the joke worked.  I see him dodge back.  He’s behind the curtain in his office.”  Again he whirled on Hiram.  “After what the Reeves family has tried to do to us,” he declared, with a flourish of his arm designed to call up in Mr. Look’s soul all the sour memories of things past, “he’s takin’ his life in his hands when he starts in to make fun of me with a lunatic and a witch-story.”

Mr. Gammon had recovered the dishonored document, and was smoothing it on the table.

“That’s twice you’ve called me a lunatic,” he remonstrated.  “You call me that again, and you’ll settle for slander!  Now, I’ve come here with an order from the court, and your duty is laid before you.  When a town officer has sworn to do his duty and don’t do it, a citizen can make it hot for him.”  Mr. Gammon, his bony hands caressing his legal document, was no longer apologetic.  “Be you goin’ to do your duty—­yes or no?”

“If—­if—­you ain’t a—­say, what have you got that rope around your neck for?” demanded the first selectman.

“To show to the people that if I ain’t protected from persecution and relieved of my misery by them that’s in duty bound to do the same, I’ll go out and hang myself—­and the blame will then be placed where it ought to be placed,” declared Mr. Gammon, shaking a gaunt finger at the Cap’n.

As a man of hard common sense the Cap’n wanted to pounce on the paper, tear it up, announce his practical ideas on the witchcraft question, and then kick Mr. Gammon and his gander into the middle of the street.  But as town officer he gazed at the end of that monitory finger and took second thought.