“Lord!” said the barber, gaping over his patron’s head.  “Lord!”

Although very short and slight, the barber had a large face, simple, amiable with a smirk of conceit as to the lower part; his forehead was very large and round, as was his head, and his blue eyes were very placid, even beautiful.  The barber never laughed.

“Two quarts of cream!” said the small man.  “Whew!”

“He must be rich if he takes all that cream,” said the postmaster.  “A half a pint a day about breaks me, but my wife must have it for her coffee.”

Rosenstein had so far got his freedom of speech, for the barber had never ceased operation to speak, though rather guardedly.  “He must be rich,” he said.  “Any man in Banbridge that buys as much as he does from a store in the place, an’ wants his bills regular every Saturday night, has got somethin’.”

“Has he paid ’em?” asked the postmaster.

“All except the last one, an’ that he didn’t pay because I couldn’t cash a check for five hundred and give him the balance.  ‘Lord, sir,’ says I, ’ef you want a check of that value cashed, you’ll have to go to John Wanamaker.  That’s as much as I take in Banbridge in a whole year.’  ‘Well, mebbe you’ll do better this year,’ says he, laughing, and goes out.  He’s a fine-spoken man, an’ it was a lucky day for Banbridge when he come here.”

“He don’t buy many postage-stamps,” said the postmaster, thoughtfully, “but he asked me if I should be able to let him have as much as ten dollars’ worth at a time, ef he wanted ’em, an’ I said I should, an’ I’ve just ordered in more.  An’ he has a big mail.”

The barber had been opening his mouth and catching his breath preparatory to speaking and saying more than any of them.  Now he spoke:  “That man’s wuth a mighty lot of money now,” said he, “but what he’s wuth now ain’t nothin’ to what he’s goin’ to be wuth some day.”

“What do you mean, John?” asked Amidon, patronizingly.

“Well, now, I’ll tell you what I mean.  That man, it’s Cap.  Carroll what’s just arraigned to Banbridge that you’re all talkin’ about, ain’t it?”

“Yes.  Go ahead.”

“Well, now, Cap.  Carroll is agoin’ to be one of them great clapatalists, ef he ain’t now,” he said.

“How?”

“Well, he got holt of some stock that’s goin’ to bust the market and turn Wall Street into a mill-stream in less than a year, ef it keeps on as it has went so fur.”

“What is it?” asked the small man.

The milkman sighed wearily.  “Oh, slow up yer jaw, and gimme a chance sometime,” he growled.  “I want to git home an’ git my breakfast.  I’m hungry.”

Flynn began hurriedly finishing off Rosenstein, talking with no less eagerness as he did so.  “Well, it’s Bonaflora mining-stock, ef you want to know,” he said, importantly.

“Where is it?” asked the postmaster, with a peculiar smile.

“Out West somewhere.  It ain’t but fifty cents a share, an’ it’s goin’ up like a skyrocket, an’ there’s others.  There’s a new railroad out there, an’ other mines, an’ a new invention for makin’ fuel out of coal-dust, an’ some other things.”