“There!” exclaimed the triumphant Obed, with a sneer, “I guess that settles it, don’t it?  Maybe you’d be willin’ to turn your bills over to Squire Baker now.”

But they were not willing.  Higgins argued, and justly, that although the Major was in all probability a fraud, not even a lawyer could get water out of a stone, and that when a man had nothing, suing him was a waste of time and cash.

“Besides,” he said, “there’s just a chance that he may have attorneys and property somewheres else.  Let’s write him a letter and every one of us sign it, tellin’ him that we’ll call on him Tuesday night expectin’ to be paid in full.  If we call and don’t get any satisfaction, why, we ain’t any worse off, and then we can—­well, run him out of town, if nothin’ more.”

So the letter was written and signed by every man there.  It was a long list of signatures and an alarming total of indebtedness.  The letter was posted that night.

The days that followed seemed long to Obed.  He was ill-natured at home and ugly at the shop, and Polena declared that he was “gettin’ so a body couldn’t live with him.”  Her own spirits were remarkably high, and Obed noticed that, as the days went by, she seemed to be unusually excited.  On Thursday she announced that she was going to Orham to visit her niece, one Sarah Emma Cahoon, and wouldn’t be back right off.  He knew better than to object, and so she went.

That evening each of the signers of the letter to Major Hardee received a courteous note saying that the Major would be pleased to receive the gentlemen at the Hall.  Nothing was said about payment.

So, after some discussion, the creditors marched in procession across the fields and up to “Silverleaf Hall.”

“Hardee’s been to Orham to-day,” whispered the keeper of the livery stable, as they entered the yard.  “He drove over this mornin’ and come back to-night.”

“Drove over!” exclaimed Obed, halting in his tracks.  “He did?  Where’d he get the team?  I’ll bet five dollars you was soft enough to let him have it, and never said a word.  Well, if you ain’t—­By jimmy! you wait till I get at him!  I’ll show you that he can’t soft soap me.”

Augustus met them at the door and ushered them into the old-fashioned parlor.  The Major, calm, cool, and imperturbably polite, was waiting to receive them.  He made some observation concerning the weather.

“The day’s fine enough,” interrupted Obed, pushing to the front, “but that ain’t what we come here to talk about.  Are you goin’ to pay us what you owe?  That’s what we want to know.”

The “gentleman of the old school” did not answer immediately.  Instead he turned to the solemn servant at his elbow.

“Augustus,” he said, “you may make ready.”  Then, looking serenely at the irate Mr. Gott, whose clenched fist rested under the center table, which he had thumped to emphasize his demands, the Major asked: