“She’ll have to move, sure.  And the eyesore on that lot now will come down.”

The “eyesore” was the four room building, combined dwelling and shop of Mrs. Olive Edwards, widow of “Bill Edwards,” once a promising young man, later town drunkard and ne’er-do-well, dead these five years, luckily for himself and luckier—­in a way—­for the wife who had stuck by him while he wasted her inheritance in a losing battle with John Barleycorn.  At his death the fine old Seabury place had dwindled to a lone hundred feet of land, the little house, and a mortgage on both.  Olive had opened a “notion store” in her front parlor and had fought on, proudly refusing aid and trying to earn a living.  She had failed.  Again Phinney stared thoughtfully at the distant house of Captain Sol.

“But Olive,” he said, slowly.  “She ain’t got no folks, has she?  What’ll become of her?  Where’ll she move to?”

“That,” said Mr. Williams, with a wave of a fat hand, “is not my business.  I am sorry for her, if she’s hard up.  But I can’t be responsible if men will drink up their wives’ money.  Look out for number one; that’s business.  I sha’n’t be unreasonable with her.  She can stay where she is until the new house I’ve bought is moved to that lot.  Then she must clear out.  I’ve told her that.  She knows all about it.  Well, good-by, Phinney.  I shall expect your bid to-morrow.  And, mind, don’t try to get the best of me, because you can’t do it.”

He turned and strutted back up the Boulevard.  Sim Phinney, pondering deeply and very grave, continued on his way, down Cross Street to Main—­naming the village roads was another of the Williams’ “improvements”—­and along that to the crossing, East Harniss’s business and social center at train times.

The station—­everyone called it “deepo,” of course—­was then a small red building, old and out of date, but scrupulously neat because of Captain Berry’s rigid surveillance.  Close beside it was the “Boston Grocery, Dry Goods and General Store,” Mr. Beriah Higgins, proprietor.  Beriah was postmaster and the post office was in his store.  The male citizen of middle age or over, seeking opportunity for companionship and chat, usually went first to the depot, sat about in the waiting room until the train came in, superintended that function, then sojourned to the post office until the mail was sorted, returning later, if he happened to be a particular friend of the depot master, to sit and smoke and yarn until Captain Sol announced that it was time to “turn in.”

When Mr. Phinney entered the little waiting room he found it already tenanted.  Captain Sol had not yet arrived, but official authority was represented by “Issy” McKay—­his full name was Issachar Ulysses Grant McKay—­a long-legged, freckled-faced, tow-headed youth of twenty, who, as usual, was sprawled along the settee by the wall, engrossed in a paper covered dime novel.  “Issy” was a lover of certain kinds of literature and reveled