Pap rubbed his talon-like hands together.

“Boys,” said he, “I done first-rate this afternoon—­I done first-rate.  I’ve made money, a wad of it—­and don’t you forget it.”

“You never allow us to forget it,” said Ajax.  “We all wish you would,” he added pointedly.

“Eh?”

He stared at my brother.  The other men in the store showed their teeth in a sort of pitiful, snarling grin.  Each was sensible of a secret pleasure that somebody else had dared to bell the cat.

My brother continued, curtly:  “This is not the time nor the place for you to buck about what you’ve done and whom you’ve done.  Under the present circumstances—­you’re an old man—­what you’ve left undone ought to be engrossing your attention.”

“Meanin’?”

Pap had glanced furtively from face to face, reading in each rough countenance derision and contempt.  The masks which the poor wear in the presence of the rich were off.

“I mean,” Ajax replied, savagely—­so savagely that the old man recoiled and nearly fell off the barrel—­“I mean, Mr. Spooner, that the diphtheria has come to Paradise, and is likely to stay here so long as there is flesh for it to feed on.”

“The diptheery?” exclaimed Pap.

Into his eyes—­those dull grey eyes—­flitted terror and horror.  But Ajax saw nothing but what had festered so long in his own mind.

“Aye—­the diphtheria!  You are rich, Mr. Spooner; you can follow your cattle into a healthier country than this.  My advice to you is—­Get!”

The old man stared; then he slid off the barrel and shambled out of the store as little Sissy Leadham entered it.  The child looked curiously at Andrew Spooner.

“What’s the matter with Pap?” she asked, shrilly.

She was a pretty, tow-headed, rosy-cheeked creature, the daughter of George Leadham, a widower, who adored her.  He was looking at her now with a strange light in his eyes.  Not a man in the store but interpreted aright the father’s glance.

“What’s the matter with pore old Pap?” she demanded.

The blacksmith caught her up, kissing her face, smoothing her curls.

“Just that, my pet,” said he.  “He’s old, and he’s poor—­the poorest man, ain’t he, boys?—­the very poorest man in Paradise.”

The child looked puzzled.  It would have taken a wiser head than hers to understand the minds of the men about her.

“I thought old Pap was rich,” she faltered.

“He ain’t,” said the blacksmith, hugging her tight.  “He’s poorer than all of us poor folks put together.”

“Oh, my!” said Sissy, opening her blue eyes.  “No wonder he looks as if someone’d hit him with a fence rail.  Pore old Pap!” Then she whispered some message, and father and child went out of the store.

We looked at each other.  The storekeeper, who had children, blew his nose with unnecessary violence.  Ajax said, abruptly:  “Boys, I’ve been a fool.  I’ve driven away the one man who might help us.”