As a matter of fact, Scattergood had amassed considerable more money than even the gimlet eyes and whispering tongues of Coldriver had been able to credit him with.  It is doubtful if anybody realized just how strong a foot-hold Scattergood was getting in that valley, but the men who came closest to it were Messrs. Crane and Keith, lumbermen, who were beginning to experience a feeling of growing irritation toward the fat hardware merchant.  They were irritated because, every now and then, they found themselves shut off from the water, or from a bit of timber, or from some other desirable property, by some small holding of Scattergood’s which seemed to have dropped into just the right spot to create the maximum amount of trouble for them.  It could be nothing but chance, they told each other, for they had sat in judgment on Scattergood, and their judgment had been that he was a lazy lout with more than a fair share of luck.

“It’s nothing but luck,” Crane told his partner.  “The man hasn’t a brain in his head—­just a big lump of fat.”

“But he’s always getting in the way—­and he does seem to know a water-power site when he sees it.”

“Anybody does,” said Crane.  “He’s a doggone nuisance and we might as well settle with him one time as another—­and the time to settle is before his luck gives him a genuine strangle hold on this valley.  We’ve got too much timber on these hills to take any risks.”

“I leave it with you, Crane.  You’re the outside man.  But when you bust him, bust him good.”

Crane retired to his office and devoted his head to the subject exclusively, and because Crane’s head was that sort of head he devised an enterprise which, if Scattergood could be made to involve himself in it, would result in the extinction of that gentleman in the Coldriver Valley.

It was a week later that a gentleman, whose clothes and bearing guaranteed him to be a genuine denizen of the city, stopped at Scattergood’s store.  Scattergood was sitting, as usual, on the piazza, in his especially reinforced chair, laying in wait for somebody to whom he could sell a bit of hardware, no matter how small.

“Good morning,” said the gentleman.  “Is this Mr. Scattergood Baines?”

“It’s Scattergood Baines, all right.  Don’t call to mind bein’ christened Mister.”

“My name is Blossom.”

“Perty name,” said Scattergood, unsmilingly.

“I wonder if I can have a little talk with you, Mr. Baines?”

“Havin’ it, hain’t you?”

Mr. Blossom smiled appreciatively, and sat down beside Scattergood.  “I’m interested in the new Higgins’s Bridge Pulp Company.  You’ve heard of it, haven’t you?”

“Some,” said Scattergood.  “Some.”

“We are starting to build our mill.  It will be the largest in America, with the most modern machinery.  Now we’re looking about for somebody to supply us spruce cut to the proper length for pulpwood.  You own considerable spruce, do you not?”