Of course there were a few who did not, or would not, like him.  Luther Small, the deposed bank clerk, was bitter in his sneers and caustic in his comments.  However, as Lute loudly declared that he was just going to quit anyhow, that he wouldn’t have worked for old Hunniwell another week if he was paid a million a minute for it, his hatred of his successor seemed rather unaccountable.  Barzilla Small, Luther’s fond parent, also professed intense dislike for the man now filling his son’s position in the bank.  “I don’t know how ’tis,” affirmed Barzilla, “but the fust time I see that young upstart I says to myself:  ‘Young feller, you ain’t my kind.’  This remark being repeated to Captain Sam, the latter observed:  ’That’s gospel truth and thank the Lord for it.’”

Another person who refused to accept Phillips favorably was Phineas Babbitt.  Phineas’s bitterness was not the sort to sweeten over night.  He disliked the new bank clerk and he told Jed Winslow why.  They met at the post office—­Phineas had not visited the windmill shop since the day when he received the telegram notifying him of his son’s enlistment—­and some one of the group waiting for the mail had happened to speak of Charlie Phillips.  “He’s a nice obligin’ young chap,” said the speaker, Captain Jeremiah Burgess.  “I like him fust-rate; everybody does, I guess.”

Mr. Babbitt, standing apart from the group, his bristling chin beard moving as he chewed his eleven o’clock allowance of “Sailor’s Sweetheart,” turned and snarled over his shoulder.

“I don’t,” he snapped.

His tone was so sharp and his utterance so unexpected that Captain Jerry jumped.

“Land of Goshen!  You bark like a dog with a sore throat,” he exclaimed.  “Why don’t you like him?”

“’Cause I don’t, that’s all.”

“That ain’t much of a reason, seems to me.  What have you got against him, Phin?  You don’t know anything to his discredit, do you?”

“Never you mind whether I do or not.”

Captain Jerry grunted but seemed disinclined to press the point further.  Every one was surprised therefore when Jed Winslow moved across to where Phineas was standing, and looking mildly down at the little man, asked:  “Do you know anything against him, Phin?”

“None of your business.  What are you buttin’ in for, Shavin’s?”

“I ain’t.  I just asked you, that’s all.  Do you know anything against Charlie Phillips?”

“None of your business, I tell you.”

“I know it ain’t.  But do you, Phin?”

Each repetition of the question had been made in the same mild, monotonous drawl.  Captain Jerry and the other loungers burst into a laugh.  Mr. Babbitt’s always simmering temper boiled over.

“No, I don’t,” he shouted.  “But I don’t know anything in his favor, neither.  He’s a pet of Sam Hunniwell and that’s enough for me.  Sam Hunniwell and every one of his chums can go to the devil.  Every one of ’em; do you understand that, Jed Winslow?”