" was the four room building, combined dwelling and shop of
Mrs. Olive Edwards, widow of "Bill Edwards," once a promising young man,
later town drunkard and ne'er-do-well, dead these five years, luckily
for himself and luckier--in a way--for the wife who had stuck by him
while he wasted her inheritance in a losing battle with John Barleycorn.
At his death the fine old Seabury place had dwindled to a lone hundred
feet of land, the little house, and a mortgage on both. Olive had opened
a "notion store" in her front parlor and had fought on, proudly refusing
aid and trying to earn a living. She had failed. Again Phinney stared
thoughtfully at the distant house of Captain Sol.

"But Olive," he said, slowly. "She ain't got no folks, has she? What'll
become of her? Where'll she move to?"

"That," said Mr. Williams, with a wave of a fat hand, "is not my
business. I am sorry for her, if she's hard up. But I can't be
responsible if men will drink up their wives' money. Look out for number
one; that's business. I sha'n't be unreasonable with her. She can stay
where she is until the new house I've bought is moved to that lot. Then
she must clear out. I've told her that. She knows all about it. Well,
good-by, Phinney. I shall expect your bid to-morrow. And, mind, don't
try to get the best of me, because you can't do it."

He turned and strutted back up the Boulevard. Sim Phinney, pondering
deeply and very grave, continued on his way, down Cross Street
to Main--naming the village roads was another of the Williams'
"improvements"--and along that to the crossing, East Harniss's business
and social center at train times.

The station--everyone called it "deepo," of course--was then a small red
building, old and out of date, but scrupulously neat because of Captain
Berry's rigid surveillance. Close beside it was the "Boston Grocery,
Dry Goods and General Store," Mr. Beriah Higgins, proprietor. Beriah
was postmaster and the post office was in his store. The male citizen
of middle age or over, seeking opportunity for companionship and chat,
usually went first to the depot, sat about in the waiting room until the
train came in, superintended that function, then sojourned to the post
office until the mail was sorted, returning later, if he happened to be
a particular friend of the depot master, to sit and smoke and yarn until
Captain Sol announced that it was time to "turn in."

When Mr. Phinney entered the little waiting room he found