As the Squire took the telegram, Sibley scratched a match on the back of his pantaloons and waiting for the sulphur to burn out lit his cigar.  Ever after the smell of sulphur brought to the Squire of Grey Pine the sense of some pleasant association and then a less agreeable remembrance.

“Read it—­read it out loud, Penhallow!  It was a near thing.  Wardlow couldn’t meet us—­be here at noon.  Read it—­I’ve read it about ten times—­want to hear it again.  I’ve been as near broke as you—­but that’s an old story.  When you’re at your last dollar, buy a fast pair of trotters—­one thousand-dollar pair—­and drive them.  Up goes your credit!  Told you that once.”

Penhallow looked up from the telegram.  “Is this certain?”

“Yes, it has been repeated—­you can rely on it.”

“WASHINGTON, Willard’s Hotel.

“Mr. Stanton has given contract for field artillery to the Penhallow Mills.

“RICHARD AINSELEY.”

Penhallow had read it aloud as he stood.  Then he sat down.

“Don’t speak to me for a moment, Sibley.  Thank God!” he murmured, while the care-wrinkled face of the veteran speculator looked at him with a faint smile of affectionate regard.

“Well,” said Penhallow, “is this all?”

“No.  While Cameron was in office the contract was drawn in favour of the Lancaster Works.  We have been urging our own claims, and their Washington agent, your very particular friend, Mr. Swallow, would have had the job in a week more.  When Stanton saw our bid and that it was really a more advantageous offer, he sent first for Swallow and then for Ainseley and settled it at once.  I believe your name and well-known character did the business.  Do you know—­do you realize what it means to us?”

“Hardly.  I had no hope while Cameron was in office.  I left it to you and Ainseley.”

“Well, you will see the contract to-morrow.”  He wriggled on to one leg of the frail office chair and came down with a crash.  He gathered up his two hundred pounds and laughing said, as he looked at the wreck, “That’s what we would have been tomorrow but for that bit of yellow paper.  In six months you will be a rich man, my friend.  Cannon—­shells—­the whole outfit.  We must get to work at once.  An ordnance officer will be here to-morrow with specifications, and your own knowledge will be invaluable.  I’d like to see Swallow again.  He was so darned sure!”

Wardlow turned up by the noon train, and they worked until dusk, when his partners left him to secure hands in Pittsburgh, while the good news spread among the men still at work.  Penhallow rode home through the woods humming his old army songs—­a relieved and happy man.

The Doctor waited a half-hour in vain, and after his noonday dinner was about to go out when Mrs. Penhallow was driven to his door.  Somewhat surprised, he went back with her.

“Sit down,” he said.  “What can I do for you?”