the village store), and ears (one bigger than the other) which
stuck straight out.

The Poor Boy came to a halt suddenly where a stream too vigorous to be
ice-bound crossed the road (under a concrete bridge that had been built
only the day before), ran out over a ledge of smooth granite and fell
thirty feet with a roar.

"Yes," said the Poor Boy, "there's got to be a sawmill with a red roof
and flower-boxes in the windows, and this is just the place for it or
I'm very much mistaken.... I wonder ... I wish to the deuce Mr. Tinker
was here, he's the best man we've got on water-power. The woods are full
of trees that ought to be cut for the benefit of the others. Yardsley
was showing me about them only yesterday. But this is a matter for
Tinker."

The Poor Boy listened and heard sleigh-bells. They came swiftly nearer.

"Wonder who this is?"

Around the nearest turn of the road toward the village came a powerful
roan horse, drawing a cutter; in the cutter sat an enormous man, but the
Poor Boy had already recognized the horse.

"I'm damned," said he; "Tinker!"

He waved both arms and called a joyous greeting. The cutter came to a
halt on the bridge.

"Just the man I wanted to see," said the Poor Boy. "I want advice and
help. Yardsley says we're letting a lot of timber go to waste. Now how
about a sawmill--right _here_?"

Mr. Tinker was a joyous bachelor of forty-five. He had been cashier of a
bank. A deficit arising, he had been wrongfully accused of direct
responsibility, and from prison he had come straight to the Poor Boy's
settlement on special (most special) invitation. He had taken a room
(and bath) in the village inn, and had made a little money out of
contracts which the Poor Boy had thrown his way.

"What's the flow here in summer?" asked Mr. Tinker doubtfully.

"About half what it is now," said the Poor Boy.

"Hum--that would be width so and so--depth so and so.... What's the
fall?"

"Thirty feet."

"Can't use it all, can we?"

The Poor Boy shook his head.

"Well--I tell you, I'll bring a tape-measure to-morrow and go into the
thing thoroughly. By the way, you know Mrs. Caxton, who's staying at the
inn?"

"Yes--yes," said the Poor Boy, "they accused her of shoplifting and it
wasn't she at all."

"Damn them," said Tinker.

"By all means," said the Poor Boy.

[Illustration: "Now how about a sawmill--right here?"]

"But what about her?" His eyes twinkled.

Mr. Tinker blushed and beamed.