The Squire shook his head slowly and reached down and stroked one of Eli’s ears.  “Eli was telling me that Jones thought he had invented perpetual motion when he tied a piece of liver to a pup’s tail and set the pup to revolving; but the pup wore out.”

Grant sat for some minutes and harkened to the bang of the hammers across the way.  “I don’t understand how a farseeing man like Tasp Britt dares to build a good house here,” he growled.

“Oh, the pup may be worn out by the time it is finished—­or those towers may mean that he intends to list it as a meetinghouse and have it exempted from taxation, Jared.  We shall see!”

But whatever it was that the selectman saw, as he sat there and stared at the wall of Squire Hexter’s office, it evidently was not serving in the way of comfort.

The Squire’s prediction about other seekers for law was fulfilled before long.  The deputy sheriff had proceeded on his travels.  The afflicted parties came up the Squire’s stairs.  Arden Young reported that three of his best cows were driven away.  George Jordan and his cousin J. O. Jordan each surrendered two faithful moolies.  It was plain that Sheriff Dowd proposed to make sure that there was auction material enough to yield one hundred and ninety dollars, along with the costs.

“Jared,” suggested the notary, “you’d better have an accounting and find out how many of those town orders were issued when the reckless spirit was on.  Somebody has decided to milk the old town.  It is being done scientifically, seeing that this first mess is so modest.  But we need to know about how many messes we’re expected to give down.”

Inside of a fortnight there were two more milkings.

At about that time Tasper Britt started proceedings to foreclose a couple of mortgages.  The debtors despondently declared that they would not attempt to redeem the property; they told Britt that he could have it for what he could get out of it.  The usurer tried to show disinclination to take over real estate in Egypt, but he did not make a very good job of the pretense.  He had the air of a man who expected to be obliged to tussle for something, but had had the something dropped into his grasp when he merely touched the holder’s knuckles.

Britt had a map of the town in his office desk.  He began to color sections with a red crayon.  According to Mr. Britt’s best judgment in the matter, he was in a fine way to own a whole town—­a barony six miles square—­at an extremely reasonable figure.  From the selectman down, nobody seemed to feel that Egypt property was worth anything.  As to beginning suits against the town, nobody felt like paying lawyers’ fees and piling up costs.  It was like tilting against a fog bank.  And in a veritable fog bank of doubt and despair the unhappy Egyptians wandered around and around.

CHAPTER XXII

THE TAUT STRING SNAPS