“Yes, do,” cried Berry, as his guest hurried down to the gate.  “I want to hear about those automobiles over your way.  You ain’t bought one, have you, Barzilla?”

Wingate grinned over his shoulder.  “No,” he called, “I ain’t.  But other folks you know have.  It’s the biggest joke on earth.  You and Sim’ll want to hear it.”

He waved a big hand and walked briskly up the Shore Road.  The depot master turned to his friend.

“Well, Sim?” he asked.

“Well, Sol,” answered the building mover gravely, “I’ve just met Mr. Hilton, the minister, and he told me somethin’ about Olive Edwards, somethin’ I thought you’d want to know.  You said for me to find out what she was cal’latin’ to do when she had to give up her home and—­”

“I know what I said,” interrupted the depot master rather sharply.  “What did Hilton say?”

“Mr. Hilton told me not to tell,” continued Phinney, “and I shan’t tell nobody but you, Sol.  I know you wont t mention it.  The minister says that Olive’s hard up as she can be.  All she’s got in the world is the little furniture and store stuff in her house.  The store stuff don’t amount to nothin’, but the furniture belonged to her pa and ma, and she set a heap by it.  Likewise, as everybody knows, she’s awful proud and self-respectin’.  Anything like charity would kill her.  Now out West—­in Omaha or somewheres—­she’s got a cousin who owed her dad money.  Old Cap’n Seabury lent this Omaha man two or three thousand dollars and set him up in business.  Course, the debt’s outlawed, but Olive don’t realize that, or, if she did, it wouldn’t count with her.  She couldn’t understand how law would have any effect on payin’ money you honestly owe.  She’s written to the Omaha cousin, tellin’ him what a scrape she’s in and askin’ him to please, if convenient, let her have a thousand or so on account.  She figgers if she gets that, she can go to Bayport or Orham or somewheres and open another notion store.”

Captain Berry lit a cigar.  “Hum!” he said, after a minute.  “You say she’s written to this chap.  Has she got an answer yet?”

“No, not any definite one.  She heard from the man’s wife sayin’ that her husband—­the cousin—­had gone on a fishin’ trip somewheres up in Canady and wouldn’t be back afore the eighth of next month.  Soon’s he does come he’ll write her.  But Mr. Hilton thinks, and so do I—­havin’ heard a few things about this cousin—­that it’s mighty doubtful if he sends any money.”

“Yes, I shouldn’t wonder.  Where’s Olive goin’ to stay while she’s waitin’ to hear?”

“In her own house.  Mr. Hilton went to Williams and pleaded with him, and he finally agreed to let her stay there until the ‘Colonial’ is moved onto the lot.  Then the Edwardses house’ll be tore down and Olive’ll have to go, of course.”

The depot master puffed thoughtfully at his cigar.

“She won’t hear before the tenth, at the earliest,” he said.  “And if Williams begins to move his ‘Colonial’ at once, he’ll get it to her lot by the seventh, sure.  Have you given him your figures for the job?”