This information demanded immediate attention.  Marshall McMahon McNutt, familiarly known as “Peggy” McNutt—­because he had once lost a foot in a mowing machine—­and who was alleged to be a real estate agent, horse doctor, fancy poultry breeder and palmist, and who also dabbled in the sale of subscription books, life insurance, liniment and watermelons, quickly slid off his front porch across the way and sauntered into Cotting’s to participate in the excitement.  Seth Davis, the blacksmith, dropped his tools and hurried to the store, and the druggist three doors away—­a dapper gentleman known as Nib Corkins—­hurriedly locked his door and attended the meeting.  Presently the curious group was enlarged by the addition of Nick Thome the liveryman, Lon Taft, a carpenter and general man-of-all-work, and Silas Caldwell the miller, the latter a serious individual who had “jest happened to come acrost from the mill in the nick o’ time.”

Sam Cotting, being himself of great local importance, had never regarded with favor the rivalry of the nabob, but he placed stools near the telephone booth for the three girls, who accepted the courtesy with a graciousness that ought to have disarmed the surly storekeeper.  They could not fail to be amused at the interest they excited, and as they personally knew every one of the town people they pleasantly nodded to each arrival and inquired after their health and the welfare of their families.  The replies were monosyllables.  Millville folks were diffident in the presence of these city visitors and while they favored the girls with rather embarrassing stares, their chief interest was centered on the little man in the telephone booth, who could plainly be seen through the glass door but might not be heard, however loudly he shouted.

“Talkin’ to New Yoruk” was yet a marvelous thing to them, and much speculation was exchanged in low tones as to the probable cost of such a conversation as Mr. Merrick was now indulging in.

“Costs a dollar to connect, ye know,” remarked Peggy McNutt to Ned Long.  “Bet a cookie he’s runnin’ the blame bill up to two dollars, with all this chinnin’.  Why can’t th’ ol’ nabob write a letter, like common folks, an’ give his extry cash to the poor?”

“Meanin’ you, Peggy?” asked Nib Corkins, with a chuckle.

“He might do wuss ner that,” retorted Peggy.  “Lor’ knows I’m poor enough.  You don’t ketch me a-talkin’ to New York at a dollar a throw, Nib, do ye?”

Meantime Mr. Merrick had succeeded in getting Mr. Marvin, of the banking house of Isham, Marvin & Co., on the wire.

“Do me a favor, Marvin,” he said.  “Hunt up the best supply house and have them send me a complete outfit to print a daily newspaper.  Everything must be modern, you know, and don’t let them leave out anything that might come handy.  Then go to Corrigan, the superintendent of the railroad, and have him send the freight up here to Chazy Junction by a special engine, for I don’t want a moment’s delay and the regular freight takes a week or so.  Charge everything to my account and impress upon the dealer the need of haste.  Understand all that, Marvin?”