“Cap’n Sol smiled once more.  ‘Too bad,’ says he.  ’It’s a pity such a nice street ain’t wider.  If it was my street in my town—­I b’lieve that’s what you call East Harniss, ain’t it?—­seems to me I’d widen it.’

“The boss of ‘my town’ ground his heel into the sand.  ‘Berry,’ he snaps, ‘are you goin’ to move that house over the Boulevard ahead of mine?’

“The Cap’n looked him square in the eye.  ‘Williams,’ says he, ‘I am.’

“The millionaire turned short and started to go.

“‘You’ll pay for it,’ he snarls, his temper gettin’ free at last.

“‘I cal’late to,’ purrs the Cap’n.  ’I gen’rally do pay for what I want, and a fair price, at that.  I never bought in cheap mortgages and held ‘em for clubs over poor folks, never in my life.  Good mornin’.’

“And right to Mr. Williams’s own face, too,” concluded Issy.  “What do you think of that?”

Here was defiance of authority and dignity, a sensation which should have racked East Harniss from end to end.  But most of the men in the village, the tradespeople particularly, had another matter on their minds, namely, Major Cuthbertson Scott Hardee, of “Silverleaf Hall.”  The Major and his debts were causing serious worriment.

The creditors of the Major met, according to agreement, on the Monday evening following their previous gathering at the club.  Obed Gott, one of the first to arrive, greeted his fellow members with an air of gloomy triumph and a sort of condescending pity.

Higgins, the “general store” keeper, acting as self-appointed chairman, asked if anyone had anything to report.  For himself, he had seen the Major and asked point-blank for payment of his bill.  The Major had been very polite and was apparently much concerned that his fellow townsmen should have been inconvenienced by any neglect of his.  He would write to his attorneys at once, so he said.

“He said a whole lot more, too,” added Higgins.  “Said he had never been better served than by the folks in this town, and that I kept a fine store, and so on and so forth.  But I haven’t got any money yet.  Anybody else had any better luck?”

No one had, although several had had similar interviews with the master of “Silverleaf Hall.”

“Obed looks as if he knew somethin’,” remarked Weeks.  “What is it, Obed?”

Mr. Gott scornfully waved his hand.

“You fellers make me laugh,” he said.  “You talk and talk, but you don’t do nothin’.  I b’lieve in doin’, myself.  When I went home t’other night, thinks I:  ‘There’s one man that might know somethin’ ’bout old Hardee, and that’s Godfrey, the hotel man.’  So I wrote to Godfrey up to Boston and I got a letter from him.  Here ’tis.”

He read the letter aloud.  Mr. Godfrey wrote that he knew nothing about Major Hardee further than that he had been able to get nothing from him in payment for his board.

“So I seized his trunk,” the letter concluded.  “There was nothing in it worth mentioning, but I took it on principle.  The Major told me a lot about writing to his attorneys for money, but I didn’t pay much attention to that.  I’m afraid he’s an old fraud, but I can’t help liking him, and if I had kept on running my hotel I guess he would have got away scot-free.”