The only man in the village to whom she had spoken regarding the new work was the clerk of the board, and then only casually as to the exact time when the bids would be received.
The day before the eventful night when the proposals were to be opened, Mr. Crane, in his buggy, stopped at her house on his way back from the fort, and they drove together to the ferry. When she returned she called Pop into the kitchen, shut the door, and showed him the bid duly signed and a slip of pink paper. This was a check of Crane & Co.'s to be deposited with the bid. Then she went down to the stable and had a long conference with Cully.
The village Board of Trustees consisted of nine men, representing a fair average of the intelligence and honesty of the people. The president was a reputable hardware merchant, a very good citizen, who kept a store largely patronized by local contractors. The other members were two lawyers,--young men working up in practice with the assistance of a political pull,--a veterinary surgeon, and five gentlemen of leisure, whose only visible means of support were derived from pool-rooms and ward meetings. Every man on the board, except the surgeon and the president, had some particular axe to grind. One wished to be sheriff; another, county clerk.
The five gentlemen of leisure wished to stay where they were.
When a pie was cut, these five held the knife. It was their fault, they said, when they went hungry.
In the side of this body politic the surgeon was a thorn as sharp as any one of his scalpels. He was a hard-headed, sober-minded Scotchman, who had been elected to represent a group of his countrymen living in the eastern part of the village, and whose profession, the five supposed, indicated without doubt his entire willingness to see through a cart-wheel, especially when the hub was silver-plated. At the first meeting of the board they learned their mistake, but it did not worry them much. They had seven votes to two.
The council-chamber of the board was a hall--large for Rockville--situated over the post-office, and only two doors from O'Leary's barroom It was the ordinary village hall, used for everything from a Christmas festival to a prize-fight. In summer it answered for a skating-rink.
Once a month the board occupied it. On these occasions a sort of rostrum was brought in for the president, besides a square table and a dozen chairs. These were placed at one end, and were partitioned off by a wooden rail to form an inclosure, outside of which always stood the citizens. On the wall hung a big eight-day clock. Over the table, about which were placed chairs, a kerosene lamp swung on a brass chain. Opposite each seat lay a square of blotting-paper and some cheap pens and paper. Down the middle of the table were three inkstands, standing in china plates.
The board always met in the evening, as the business hours of the members prevented their giving the day to their deliberations.
