St. John hills--a lofty, ponderous hulk of a man, thatched with white
hair, his big, round face cherubic still in spite of its wrinkles. He
lighted a cigar, and gazed up into the cloudless sky with the mental
endorsement that it was good caucus weather. Then he trudged out across
the grass-plot and climbed into his favorite seat. It was an arm-chair
set high in the tangle of the roots of an overturned spruce-tree. The
politicians of the county called that seat "The Throne," and for a
quarter of a century the Hon. Thelismer Thornton had been nicknamed "The
Duke of Fort Canibas." Add that the nicknames were not ill bestowed.
Such was the Hon. Thelismer Thornton.

He had brought newspapers in his pockets. He set his eyeglasses on his
bulging nose, and began to read.

In the highway below him teams went jogging into the village. There
were fuzzy Canadian horses pulling buckboards sagging under the weight
of all the men who could cling on. There were top carriages and even a
hayrack well loaded with men.

Occasionally the old man lifted his gaze from his reading and eyed the
dusty wayfarers benignantly. He liked to know that the boys were turning
out to the caucus. His perch was a lofty one. He could see that the one
long street of Fort Canibas was well gridironed with teams--horses
munching at hitching-posts, wagons thrusting their tails into the
roadway.

It was quiet at Thornton's end of the village. There was merely twitter
of birds in the silver poplar that shaded his seat, busy chatter of
swallows, who were plastering up their mud nests under the eaves of the
old blockhouse across the road from him. It was so quiet that he could