s business, not mine."

"I've took note," said Scattergood, "that them that was most strict
about mindin' their own business was gen'ally most diligent about doin'
God's--all unbeknownst to themselves."

CHAPTER XI

HE INVESTS IN SALVATION

From Scattergood Baines's seat on the piazza of his hardware store he
could look across the river and through a side window of the bank.
Scattergood was availing himself of this privilege. As a member of the
finance committee of the bank Scattergood was naturally interested in
that enterprise, so important to the thrifty community, but his interest
at the moment was not exactly official. He was regarding, speculatively,
the back of young Ovid Nixon, the assistant cashier.

His concern for young Ovid was sartorial. It is true that a shiny alpaca
office coat covered the excellent shoulders of the boy, but below that
alpaca and under Scattergood's line of vision were trousers--and
carefully stretched over a hanger on a closet hook was a coat! There was
also a waistcoat, recognized only by the name of _vest_ in Coldriver,
and that very morning Scattergood had seen the three, to say nothing of
a certain shirt and a necktie of sorts, making brave young Ovid's
figure.

Ovid passed Scattergood's store on the way to his work. Baines had
regarded him with interest.

"Mornin', Ovid" he said.

"Morning, Mr. Baines."

"Calc'late to be wearin' some new clothes, Ovid? Eh?"

Ovid smiled down at himself, and wagged his head.

"Don't recall seem' jest sich a suit in Coldriver before," said
Scattergood. "Never bought 'em at Lafe Atwell's, did you?"

"Got 'em in the city," said Ovid.

"I want to know! Come made that way, Ovid, or was they manufactured
special fer you?"

"Best tailor there was," said Ovid.

"Must 'a' come to quite a figger, includin' the shirt and necktie."

"Forty dollars for the suit," Ovid said, proudly, "and it busted a
five-dollar bill all to pieces to git the shirt and tie."

Scattergood waggled his head admiringly. "Must be a satisfaction," he
said, "to be able to afford sich clothes."

Ovid looked a bit doubtful, but Scattergood's voice was so interested,
so bland, that any suspicion of irony was allayed.

"How's your ma?" Scattergood asked.

"Pert," answered Ovid. "Ma's spry. Barrin' a siege of neuralgy in the
face off and on, ma hain't complainin' of nothin'."

"Has she took to patronizin' a city tailor, too?" Scattergood asked.

"Mostly," sai