“No!” interrupted Quincy, “let the sign read, Strout & Maxwell.”

“And,” continued Mr. Strout, “Mr. Sawyer here is goin’ to push through my app’intment as postmaster.”

By this time Abner’s mouth was wide open.  Quincy saw it, and imagined the conflict going on in poor Abner’s mind.

“What Mr. Strout says is correct,” remarked Quincy, “but you have no time to lose now.  Perhaps to-night Mr. Strout will explain the matter more fully to you.”

Abner turned, without a word, and left the room.

“Mr. Stiles is a faithful friend of yours,” said Quincy, turning to the Professor.

“Yes,” assented Strout; “Abner’s a very good shaft horse, but he wouldn’t be of much vally as a lead.”

Quincy again extended his cigar case.  This time the Professor did not refuse, but took two.  Holding up one of them between his fingers, he said, “This is the one I didn’t take when I came in.”

“I will have the partnership papers drawn up in a few days, Mr. Strout, ready for signature, and I will write at once to my friends in Washington, and urge them to see the Postmaster General, and have your appointment made as soon as possible.”

“Yer don’t let no grass grow under yer feet, do yer?” said Strout.

Quincy was a little taken aback by this remark, for he had not anticipated a compliment from the Professor.  He turned to him and said, “Until you forfeit my esteem, we are friends, and it is always a pleasure to me to help my friends.”

The men shook hands again, and the Professor left the room.

“Not a bad man at heart,” soliloquized Quincy.  “I am glad the affair has had such a pleasant termination.  Poor Alice!  What a time she must have had with Mrs. Putnam, and so Lindy is going to keep her word, and not stay to the funeral.  Well, knowing what I do, I don’t blame her.  Perhaps Mrs. Putnam told Alice that Lindy was not her own child, for Alice would not accept the fortune, I know, if she thought she was wronging Lindy by doing so.  I’ll go home,”—­he smiled as he said this,—­“and probably Alice will tell me all about it.”

He went down stairs, and not seeing Mrs. Hawkins in the dining-room, walked out into the kitchen, where she was hard at work washing the dinner dishes.

“Law, Mr. Sawyer, why didn’t you holler for me ef you wanted anything?”

“I don’t wish for anything particularly,” said Quincy, “but I do wish to compliment you on your chicken salad; it was as fine as any I ever ate at Young’s, or Parker’s, in Boston, and,” continued he, “here are twelve dollars.”  He held out the money to her, she wiped her hands on her apron.

“What’s that fur?” she asked.  “I’ve got six dollars of your money now.”

“That’s for Mandy,” said Quincy; “and this,” pressing the money into her hand, “is for four weeks’ room rent; I am liable to come here any time during the next month.  I am going into business with Mr. Strout and Mr. Maxwell—­we’re going to run the grocery store over here, and it will be very handy to be so near to the store until we get the business established.  Good afternoon, Mrs. Hawkins,” and he took her hand, which was still wet, in his, and shook it warmly.