on his way out, he found a young man writing
at a desk. It was William Washburn, the book-keeper for the former
owners of the livery-stable, whom Westerfelt had retained on Bradley's
recommendation. Washburn was copying accounts from a ledger on to
sheets of paper.

"How are they running?" asked Westerfelt, looking over the young man's
shoulder.

"Lots of 'em hain't wuth the paper they are on," replied Washburn.
"The old firm knowed everybody in creation, an' never could refuse a
soul. When you bought the accounts you didn't buy gold dollars."

"I know that, but Bradley said he thought I might collect a good many
of them."

"Oh yes; maybe a half, or tharabouts."

"Well," said Westerfelt, indifferently, "we'll do the best we can."

"Thar's a big un that's no good." Washburn pointed to an account he
had just copied.

"Who's it on?"

"Toot Wambush."

"How much?"

"Seventy-eight dollars an' fifty cents. It's been runnin' on fer two
yeer, an' thar hain't a single credit on it. He never was knowed to
pay a cent to nobody."

"Don't let anything out to him till the account is paid."

Washburn looked up with a dubious smile. "He'll raise a' awful row.
He never wants to go anywhar tell he's drinkin', an' then he's as ill
as a snake an' will fight at the drop of a hat. Nobody in Cartwright
dares to refuse 'im credit."

"I will, if he doesn't pay up."

"D' y' ever see 'im?"

"Yes, last night."

"I'd be cautious if I wus you; he's a dangerous man, an' takes offence
at the slightest thing."

"If he gets mad at me for refusing to let him drive my horses when he
owes a bill like that, and won't pay it, he can do so. I obey the law
myself, and I will not let drunkards run my business to suit
themselves."

"He's talking 'bout goin' out to his father's this morning, an' wants
to drive the same rig he had last night."

"I did not know he had my turnout last night."

"Yes, you wusn't heer, an' I knowed he'd make trouble if I refused him."

"That's all right, but don't let him get in any deeper till the old
debt is settled. I'm going over to the hotel a minute."

It was a warm day for October, and the veranda of the hotel was crowded
with loungers, homely men in jeans, slouched hats, and coarse brogans.
Some of them sat on the benches, supported by the square columns, at
the end of the veranda; a few had tilted their chairs against the wall,
and others stood in groups and talked county politics.

Th