"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The station--everyone called it "deepo," of course--was then a small red building, old and out of date, but scrupulously neat because of Captain Berry's rigid surveillance.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 it already tenanted. Captain Sol had not yet arrived, but official authority was represented by "Issy" McKay--his full name was Issachar Ulysses Grant McKay--a long-legged, freckled-faced, tow- headed youth of twenty, who, as usual, was sprawled along the settee by the wall, engrossed in a paper covered dime novel. "Issy" was a lover of certain kinds of literature and reveled in lurid fiction. As a youngster he had, at the age of thirteen, after a course of reading in the "Deadwood Dick Library," started on a pedestrian journey to the Far West, where, being armed with home-made tomahawk and scalping knife, he contemplated extermination of the noble red man. A wrathful pursuing parent had collared the exterminator at the Bayport station, to the huge delight of East Harniss, young and old. Since this adventure Issy had been famous, in a way.

He was Captain Sol Berry's assistant at the depot. Why an assistant was needed was a much discussed question. Why Captain Sol, a retired seafaring man with money in the bank, should care to be depot master at ten dollars a week was another. The Captain himself said he took the place because he wanted to do something that was "half way between a loaf and a job." He employed an assistant at his own expense because he "might want to stretch the loafin' half." And he hired Issy because--well, because "most folks in East Harniss are alike and you can always tell about what they'll say or do. Now Issy's different. The Lord only knows what HE'S likely to do, and that makes him interestin' as a conundrum, to guess at. He kind of keeps my sense of responsibility from gettin' mossy, Issy does."

"Issy," hailed Mr. Phinney, "has the Cap'n got here yet?"

Issy answered not. The villainous floorwalker had just proffered matrimony or summary discharge to "Flora, the Beautiful Shop Girl," and pending her answer, the McKay mind had no room for trifles.

"Issy!" shouted Simeon. "I say, Is', Wake up, you foolhead! Has Cap'n Sol--"

"No, he ain't, Sim," volunteered Ed Crocker. He and his chum, Cornelius Rowe, were seated in two of the waiting room chairs, their feet on two others. "He ain't got here yet. We was just talkin' about him. You've heard about Olive Edwards, I s'pose likely, ain't you?"

Phinney nodded gloomily.

"Yes," he said, "I've heard."

"Well, it's too bad," continued Crocker. "But, after all, it's Olive's own fault. She'd ought to have married Sol Berry when she had the chance. What she ever gave him the go-by for, after the years they was keepin' comp'ny, is more'n I can understand."

Cornelius Rowe shook his head, with an air of wisdom. Captain Sol, himself, remarked once: "I wonder sometimes the Almighty ain't jealous of Cornelius, he knows so much and is so responsible for the runnin' of all creation."

"Humph!" grunted Mr. Rowe. "There's more to that business than you folks think. Olive didn't notice Bill Edwards till Sol went off to sea and stayed two years and over. How do you know she shook Sol? You might just as well say he shook her. He always was stubborn as an off ox and cranky as a windlass. I wonder how he feels now, when she's lost her last red and is goin' to be drove out of house and home. And all on account of that fool 'mountain and Mahomet' business."

"WHICH?" asked Mr. Crocker.

"Never mind that, Cornelius," put in Phinney, sharply. "Why don't you let other folks' affairs alone? That was a secret that Olive told your sister and you've got no right to go blabbin'."

"Aw, hush up, Sim! I ain't tellin' no secrets to anybody but Ed here, and he ain't lived in East Harniss long or he'd know it already. The mountain and Mahomet? Why, them was the last words Sol and Olive had. 'Twas Sol's stubbornness that was most to blame. That was his one bad fault. He would have his own way and he wouldn't change. Olive had set her heart on goin' to Washin'ton for their weddin' tower. Sol wanted to go to Niagara. They argued a long time, and finally Olive says, 'No, Solomon, I'm not goin' to give in this time. I have all the others, but it's not fair and it's not right, and no married life can be happy where one does all the sacrificin'. If you care for me you'll do as I want now.'

"And he laughs and says, 'All right, I'll sacrifice after this, but you and me must see Niagara.' And she was sot and he was sotter, and at last they quarreled. He marches out of the door and says: 'Very good. When you're ready to be sensible and change your mind, you can come to me. And says Olive, pretty white but firm: 'No, Solomon, I'm right and you're not. I'm afraid this time the mountain must come to Mahomet.' That ended it. He went away and never come back, and after a long spell she give in to her dad and married Bill Edwards. Foolish? 'Well, now, WA'N'T it!"

"Humph!" grunted Crocker. "She must have been a born gump to let a smart man like him get away just for that."

"There's a good many born gumps not so far from here as her house," interjected Phinney. "You remember that next time you look in the glass, Ed Crocker. And--and--well, there's no better friend of Sol Berry's on earth than I am, but, so fur as their quarrel was concerned, if you ask me I'd have to say Olive was pretty nigh right."

"Maybe--maybe," declared the allwise Cornelius, "but just the same if I was Sol Berry, and knew my old girl was likely to go to the poorhouse, I'll bet my conscience--"

"S-ssh!" hissed Crocker, frantically. Cornelius stopped in the middle of his sentence, whirled in his chair, and looked up. Behind him in the doorway of the station stood Captain Sol himself. The blue cap he always wore was set back on his head, a cigar tipped upward from the corner of his mouth, and there was a grim look in his eye and about the smooth shaven lips above the short, grayish-brown beard.

"Issy" sprang from his settee and jammed the paper novel into his pocket. Ed Crocker's sunburned face turned redder yet. Sim Phinney grinned at Mr. Rowe, who was very much embarrassed.

"Er--er--evenin', Cap'n Sol," he stammered. "Nice, seasonable weather, ain't it? Been a nice day."

"Um," grunted the depot master, knocking the ashes from his cigar.

"Just right for workin' outdoor," continued Cornelius.

"I guess it must be. I saw your wife rakin' the yard this mornin'."

Phinney doubled up with a chuckle. Mr. Rowe swallowed hard. "I--I TOLD her I'd rake it myself soon's I got time," he sputtered.

"Um. Well, I s'pose she realized your time was precious. Evenin', Sim, glad to see you."

He held out his hand and Phinney grasped it.

"Issy," said Captain Sol, "you'd better get busy with the broom, hadn't you. It's standin' over in that corner and I wouldn't wonder if it needed exercise. Sim, the train ain't due for twenty minutes yet. That gives us at least three quarters of an hour afore it gets here. Come outside a spell. I want to talk to you."

He led the way to the platform, around the corner of the station, and seated himself on the baggage truck. That side of the building, being furthest from the street, was out of view from the post office and "general store."

"What was it you wanted to talk about, Sol?" asked Simeon, sitting down beside his friend on the truck.

The Captain smoked in silence for a moment. Then he asked a question in return.

"Sim," he said, "have you heard anything about Williams buying the Smalley house? Is it true?"

Phinney nodded. "Yup," he answered, "it's true. Williams was just talkin' to me and I know all about his buyin' it and where it's goin'."

He repeated the conversation with the great man. Captain Sol did not interrupt. He smoked on, and a frown gathered and deepened as he listened.

"Humph!" he said, when his friend had concluded. "Humph! Sim, do you have any idea what--what Olive Seabury will do when she has to go?"