Charles Daven, the aged postmaster and
a justice of the peace. "Why there's been more mail come to this here
office in the last two weeks than in two months afore."
"How do you account for that?" asked Mr. Appelby.
"Why nearly every resident has written to some friend, tellin' of the
new engines an' fire department, an' the pussons has writ back, askin'
how we done it. I know, 'cause lots of 'em writ on postal cards, an' I
read 'em. I read all th' postals you know," he went on, as if that was
his privilege, "only now there's gittin' to be so much mail, I don't
half finish with 'em, 'fore some pusson comes in an' takes 'em away.
But business is certainly improvin' wonderful."
"And the taxes will go up likewise," added Mr. Sagger with a scowl.
"Not on account of the fire department," declared the mayor. "That
hasn't cost the town a cent. Mr. Bergman footed the bills."
"But it will in time. He ain't going to live forever."
"Well, the town ought to be glad to pay 'em in a few years. More folks
will come to live here if we have good protection from fire, and if
the village gets bigger the taxes will be less."
"Well, I ain't going to pay any more," declared the miserly butcher.
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