The process of Sam’s being named grand marshal was a circuitous one, having begun the evening before when Harvey Muldock had phoned to report that their state representative, the Honorable Henry Tuttle, had been stricken with the flu. Sam was sympathetic and asked Harvey if he should send a get-well card, even though he hadn’t voted for Henry Tuttle and had only met him once, when the Honorable Mr. Tuttle had shaken his hand and called him Jim. “Send him a card if you want,” Harvey said. “That’s your business. But he was supposed to be our grand marshal, and now he’s sick. Who can we get to replace him?” “How about Clevis Nagle?” Sam suggested. “He’s done a lot of good for the town.” “He was grand marshal year before last.” “Well, then, how about Mabel Morrison?” “Too grouchy. She wouldn’t wave at people.” “Yeah, you’re probably right. How about you being our grand marshal, Harvey?” “Can’t. I’m driving the Sausage Queen.” “Oh, that’s right.”
