hich he saw and turned to
his advantage. The two other chief grocers in the place, Cunningham the
dirty and Calderwood the drunken, having no carts or horses of their
own, were dependent on Gourlay for conveyance of their goods from
Skeighan. But Wilson brought his own. Naturally, he was asked by his
customers to bring a parcel now and then, and naturally, being the man
he was, he made them pay for the privilege. With that for a start the
rest was soon accomplished. Gourlay had to pay now for his years of
insolence and tyranny; all who had irked beneath his domineering ways
got their carrying done by Wilson. Ere long that prosperous gentleman
had three carts on the road, and two men under him to help in his
various affairs.

Carting was only one of several new developments in the business of J.
W. When the navvies came in about the town and accommodation was ill to
find, Wilson rigged up an old shed in the corner of his holm as a
hostelry for ten of them--and they had to pay through the nose for their
night's lodging. Their food they obtained from the Emporium, and thus
the Wilsons bled them both ways. Then there was the scheme for supplying
milk--another of the "possibeelities." Hitherto in winter, Barbie was
dependent for its milk supply on heavy farm-carts that came lumbering
down the street, about half-past seven in the morning, jangling bells to
waken sleepy customers, and carrying lanterns that carved circles of
fairy yellow out the raw air. But Mrs. Wilson got four cows,
back-calvers who would be milking strong in December, and supplied milk
to all the folk about the Cross.

She had a lass to help her in the house now, and the red-headed boy was
always to be seen, jinking round corners like a weasel, running messages
hot-foot, errand boy to the "bisness" in general. Yet, though everybody
was busy and skelping at it, such a stress of work was accompanied with
much disarray. Wilson's yard was the strangest contrast to Gourlay's.
Gourlay's was a pleasure to the eye, everything of the best and
everything in order, since the master's pride would not allow it to be
other. But though Wilson's Emporium was clean, his back yard was
littered with dirty straw, broken boxes, old barrels, stable refuse, and
the sky-pointing shafts of carts, uptilted in between. When boxes and
barrels were flung out of the Emporium they were generally allowed to
lie on the dunghill until they were converted into firewood. "Mistress,
you're a