I hope you got a good
price for the land, Jim."

"Well, I didn't; that is, not very big. What's up, anyway? What are you
hintin' at, Cap'n Shad?"

Before the Captain could answer, Mary, who had been listening to the
conversation, broke in to ask a question.

"Mr. Peters," she cried eagerly, "would you mind telling me this: Whose
name is the new deed in, Mr. Clifford's or his wife's?"

Jimmie G. laughed. "Why, that was kind of funny, too," he said. "You
know Jerry, Cap'n Shad; he never has nothin' in his own name--it's all
in his wife's. That's a principle of his."

"I'd call it a lack of principle," grunted Shadrach. "Never mind, Jim;
go on."

"But he was in a terrible rush to close the sale, for some reason or
other," went on Peters, "and I forgot, myself, and had the deed made in
the name of Jeremiah Clifford. He made a big row at first, but it seemed
as if he couldn't wait for me to have it changed, so he handed over his
check and--"

"Wait! Wait, please, Mr. Peters!" broke in Mary, her eyes flashing with
excitement. "Just tell me if I understand you correctly. You sold that
land to Mr. Clifford and he owns it now IN HIS OWN NAME?"

"Why, yes--sartin."

Mary waited to hear no more. She ran out of the store and to the
post-office. A few minutes later she was talking with Judge Baxter over
the telephone. When she returned the Captain was curious to know where
she had been, but she would not tell him.

"Wait," she said. "Wait, Uncle Shad; I think something is going to
happen."

It happened on Monday morning. Mary was at the desk; Simeon was in the
back room getting ready his early morning orders, and Captain Shad was
standing by the window looking out. Suddenly Mary heard him utter an
exclamation.

"What is the matter?" she asked.

"Oh, nothin'."

"You spoke as if you were in pain."

"No wonder. I'm lookin' at somethin' that gives me a pain. That
wizened-up landshark of a Jerry Clifford is in sight, bound to the
post-office, I cal'late. Goin' to put a one-cent stamp on a letter and
let the feller that gets it pay the other cent, I suppose. He always
asks the postmaster to lick the stamp, so's to save the wear and tear on
his own tongue. That's a fact. . . . No," he added, a moment later, "he
ain't goin' to the office; he's turnin' down the lane here. . . . Eh!
Jumpin' fire of brimstone, I do believe--WHAT in the world?"

For Mr. Clifford's step was upon the platform of the store and in
another mo