every other I can think of off-hand."

"That’s all right," says he. "Some of these days you’ll hold office right in this town. We need political prestige in our business and you, Cap’n Snow, bein’ the solid citizen of this close corporation, will have to sacrifice yourself on the altar of public duty."

"Nary sacrifice," says I. Which shows how little the average man knows what’s in store for him.

CHAPTER III—I GET INTO POLITICS

When I shook hands with Mary Blaisdell and left her standin’ under the wistaria vine at the front door of the little old house that had belonged to Henry, all I said was for her to keep a stiff upper lip and not to be any bluer than was necessary.

"Ostable’s lost a good postmaster," says I, "and you’ve lost a kind, thoughtful, providin’ brother. I know it looks pretty foggy ahead to you just now and you can’t see how you’re goin’ to get along; but you keep up your pluck and a way’ll be provided. Meantime I’m goin’ to think hard and perhaps I can see a light somewheres. My owners used to tell me I was consider’ble of a navigator, so between us we’d ought to fetch you into port."

Her eyes were wet, but she smiled, rainbow fashion, through the shower, and said I was awful good and she’d never forget how kind I’d been through it all.

"Whatever becomes of me, Cap’n Snow," she says, "I shall never forget that."

What I’d done wa’n’t worth talkin’ about, so I said good-by and hurried away. At the top of the hill I turned and looked back. She was still standin’ in the door and, in spite of the wistaria and the hollyhocks and the green summer stuff everywheres, the whole picture was pretty forlorn. The little white buildin’ by the road, with the sign, "Post-office" over the window, looked more lonesome still. And yet the sight of it and the sight of that sign give me an inspiration. I stood stock still and thumped my fists together.

"Why not?" says I to myself. "By mighty, yes! Why not?"

You see, Henry Blaisdell was one of the few Ostable folks that I’d known as a boy and who was livin’ there yet when I came back. He was younger than I, and Mary, his sister, was younger still. I liked Henry and his death was a sort of personal loss to me, as you might say. I liked Mary, too. She was always so quiet and common-sense and comfortable. _She_ didn’t gossip, and the way she 

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