“‘We regret to inform you,’ he read aloud, ’that the Funny Novelty Company of this town went into bankruptcy a month ago.

“‘John Holway.’”

“Humph!” he sniffed.  “That’s short and sweet.  Owed you somethin’, I presume likely?”

Jed nodded.  “Seventeen dollars and three cents,” he admitted, between the remaining nails.

“Sho!  Well, if you could get the seventeen dollars you’d throw off the three cents, wouldn’t you?”

“No-o.”

“You wouldn’t?  Why not?”

Jed pried a crookedly driven nail out again and substituted a fresh one.

“Can’t afford to,” he drawled.  “That’s the part I’ll probably get.”

“Guess you’re right.  Who’s this John Holway?”

“Eh. . . .  Why, when he ordered the mills of me last summer he was president of the Funny Novelty Company up there to Manchester.”

“Good Lord!  Well, I admire his nerve.  How did you come to sell these—­er—­Funny folks, in the first place?”

Mr. Winslow looked surprised.

“Why, they wrote and sent an order,” he replied.

“Did, eh?  And you didn’t think of lookin’ ’em up to see whether they was good for anything or good for nothin’?  Just sailed in and hurried off the stuff, I presume likely?”

Jed nodded.  “Why—­why, yes, of course,” he said.  “You see, they said they wanted it right away.”

His friend groaned.  “Gracious king!” he exclaimed.  “How many times have I told you to let me look up credits for you when you get an order from a stranger?  Well, there’s no use talkin’ to you.  Give me this letter.  I’ll see what I can squeeze out of your Funny friend. . . .  But, say,” he added, “I can’t stop but a minute, and I ran in to ask you if you’d changed your mind about rentin’ the old house here.  If you have, I believe I’ve got a good tenant for you.”

Jed looked troubled.  He laid down the hammer and took the last nail from his mouth.

“Now—­now, Sam,” he began, “you know—­”

“Oh, I know you’ve set your thick head dead against rentin’ it at all, but that’s silly, as I’ve told you a thousand times.  The house is empty and it doesn’t do any house good to stay empty.  Course if ’twas anybody but you, Jed Winslow, you’d live in it yourself instead of campin’ out in this shack here.”

Jed sat down on the box he had just nailed and, taking one long leg between his big hands, pulled its knee up until he could have rested his chin upon it without much inconvenience.

“I know, Sam,” he drawled gravely, “but that’s the trouble—­I ain’t been anybody but me for forty-five years.”

The captain smiled, in spite of his impatience.  “And you won’t be anybody else for the next forty-five,” he said, “I know that.  But all the same, bein’ a practical, more or less sane man myself, it makes me nervous to see a nice, attractive, comfortable little house standin’ idle while the feller that owns it eats and sleeps in a two-by-four sawmill, so to speak.  And, not only that, but won’t let anybody else live in the house, either.  I call that a dog in the manger business, and crazy besides.”