About half a mile on the other side of Shag’s Hill there is a hotel, off from the road, looking like an overgrown Swiss chalet.  Not a country-tavern by any means.  Starr, a New-York caterer, keeps it, as a sort of boarding-house for a few wealthy Pittsburg families in summer:  however, if you should stop there at any time of the year, you would be sure of a delicate croquette and a fair glass of wine.  Usually, Starr and his family are the only occupants in winter, but on this Christmas eve there were lights in two of the upper rooms.  M. Soule, the Mobile financier, so well known through the West, with his family, had occupied them for about a week; this evening, too, a Mr. Frazier from St. Louis was at the house:  there was a collision of trains near Beaver, and he had left the other passengers and come over to Starr’s, intending to go on horseback up to Pittsburg in the morning.  An old acquaintance of the Soules, apparently:  he had dined with them that evening, and when Starr went up about ten o’clock to know if Mr. Soule wished to go out gunning in the morning, he found the old man still standing with his back to the fire, talking sharply of the Little Miami Railroad shares, then beginning to go up.  “A thorough old Shylock,” thought Starr, waiting, scanning the acrid, wizened face with its protruding black eyes, the dried-up figure in a baggy suit of blue, a white collar turned down nearly to the shoulders, and the gray hair knotted in a queue.  He looked at the landlord, scowling at the interruption:  M. Soule, on the contrary, spoke heartily, as if suddenly relieved of a bore.

“Of course, of course, Starr; I’ll be off by four.  I’ll saddle my own horse,—­no need to disturb any of your people; let them sleep on Christmas at least, poor devils.  The partridges about here are really worth tasting,” turning to Frazier, “and Starr tells me of a mythical deer back in the hills.  You see,” with a bow, “it will not be possible for me to breakfast with you.  I’ll see you at Pittsburg about those snares,—­say, on Monday.”

“Yes,” buttoning his coat, with a furtive glance of contempt at Soule’s burly figure and eager face.  Was this the far-famed Nimrod of the money-hunt?  “I’ll say to Pryor you had other game on hand to-day.”

“Other game,—­yes,” with a sudden gravity,—­pushing his hair back, and looking in the fire, while the old man made his formal adieus to his wife.  They lasted some time, for Madame Soule was a courtly little body, with all her quiet.

“I must make an early start, too,” said Frazier, turning again.  “Glad of the chance to take a bracing ride.  Banks closed to-morrow, so no time’s lost, eh?  Well, good night, Soule,” perceiving that the other did not see his outstretched hand; “don’t come down; good night”; and so shuffled down the stairs.

“Pah!” said Soule, with a breath of relief.  “His blood’s like water.  He never owed a dollar, and never gave one away.”