e thinks consider'ble of you," he said. "And Captain Jed--he's one
of the directors--he will, too, now that you've stood up to Colton. Just
put in a word for me, will you? And don't forget I'm a friend of yours,
and I'm strong for your gettin' a good, fair price from the town.
Remember that, won't you?"

"I won't forget, Alvin. Good-by."

I left him and went into the bank. Henry Small, the bookkeeper, was at
his desk. I walked over to speak to him, but he, looking up from his
figures, spoke first. There was, or so it seemed to me, a different note
in his greeting. It was more hearty, I thought. Certainly he regarded me
with a new and curious interest.

"Morning, Ros," he said. "Well, how are you these days?"

I answered that I was well, and was moving on but he detained me.

"Lively times ahead, hey," he whispered.

"What sort of times?" I asked.

He winked. "I guess you know, if anybody does," he observed. "All right,
you'll have good friends on your side. I ain't saying anything, of
course, but I'm on, all right."

He winked again. I walked back to the cashier's window. Taylor had,
evidently, seen me talking with the bookkeeper, for he was standing by
the little gate, waiting for me.

"Hello, Ros," he said. "Glad to see you. Come in."

George Taylor was a type of smart country boy grown to manhood in
the country. His tone, like his manner, was sharp and quick and
businesslike, but he spoke with the Down-East twang and used the Cape
phrases and metaphors. He was younger than I, but he looked older, and,
of late, it had seemed to me that he was growing more nervous. We shook
hands.

"Glad to see you," he said again. "I was hoping you'd drift in. I
presumed likely you might. Sit down."

I took the proffered chair. He looked at me with much the same curious
interest that Small had shown.

"We've been hearing about you," he said. "You've been getting yourself
talked about."

I mentally cussed Lute once more for his loquacity.

"I'll break the fellow's neck," I declared, with emphasis.

He laughed. "Don't do that yet awhile," he said. "The market is in bad
enough shape as it is. If his neck was broke the whole of Wall Street
would go to pot."

"Wall Street? What in the world has Lute got to do with Wall Street?"

"Lute! Oh, I see! Yes, Lute's been doing considerable talking, but it
ain't his neck I mean. Say, Ros, what did you do to him, anyway? You
stirred him up some, judging by what he said to me."