They had reached the Phipps’ gate by this time and there they parted.  The light keeper strode off, rolling heavily, his beard blowing across his shoulder.  He had been, for him, remarkably good-humored and talkative.  Galusha was inclined to attribute the good humor to the fact that Captain Jethro considered he had made a good bargain in selling his own shares at a price so much higher than that obtained by Snow and the rest.  The next time they conversed the good humor was not as apparent.  But that occasion was almost a fortnight later.

And, meantime, Mr. Pulcifer had become the center of interest in East Wellmouth and its neighborhood.  An important figure he always was, particularly in his own estimation, but now the spotlight of publicity which beat upon his ample figure had in its rays the blue tinge of mystery.  The question which all Wellmouth was asking was that which Captain Jethro had asked Mr. Bangs:  “What is Raish up to now?”

And Mr. Pulcifer firmly refused to answer that question.  Or, to be more exact, he always answered it, but the answers were not considered convincing.  Some pretended to be satisfied with his offhand declaration that he “had a little chunk of the stock and just presumed likely I might as well have a little more.  Ain’t nothin’ to make a fuss about, anyhow.”  A few pretended to accept this explanation as bona fide, but the remainder, the majority, received it with open incredulity.

The oddest part of it all was the fact that the great Horatio appeared to dislike the prominent position which his activities held in the community mind.  Ordinarily prominence had been the delight of his soul.  In every political campaign, wherever the limelight shone brightest there had strutted Mr. Pulcifer, cigar in mouth, hat over one eye, serene self-satisfaction in the possession of mysterious knowledge radiating from his person.  He loved that sort of thing; to be the possessor of “inside information,” however slight, or even to be popularly supposed to possess it, had hitherto been the meat upon which this, Wellmouth’s, Caesar, fed and grew great.

But Raish was not enjoying this particular meal.  And his attitude was not pretense, either; it was obvious that the more East Wellmouth discussed his buying the Development stock the less he liked it.  When his fellow townsmen questioned him he grew peevish.

“Oh, forget it!” he exclaimed to one of the unfortunate who came seeking information.  “You make me tired, Jim Fletcher, you and Ras Beebe and the whole gang.  By cripes, a feller can’t as much as take a five cent cigar out of his pocket without all hands tryin’ to make a—­a molehill out of it.  Forget it, I tell you!”

Mr. Fletcher was a simple soul, decidedly not one of East Wellmouth’s intellectual aristocracy, but he was persistent.

“Aw, hold on, Raish,” he expostulated, “I never said a word about your takin’ a five cent cigar out of your pocket. . . .  Er—­er—­ you ain’t taken one out, have you?”