Part 30 (1/2)

”Sure,” said Bob with the greatest of alacrity, and he hurried back to where the old flatboat, water-soaked and nearly as black as the swamp upon which it rested, was half submerged beyond the clump of bushes.

When, after infinite labor, he had pushed that clumsy craft afloat upon the bosom of the shallow swamp, Mr. Bubble was on the spot with infinite direction. He told Bob, shouting from the sh.o.r.e, just where to proceed and how, down to the handling of each trowelful of dripping mud, and even to the emptying of each small pailful into the large pail.

”I don't know exactly how I'll get this boxed for s.h.i.+pping,” hinted Wallingford, as Bob carried the pail laboriously back to the buggy.

”Right down at the mill,” invited Mr. Bubble with great cordiality.

”I'll have my people look after it for you.”

”That's very kind of you,” replied Wallingford. ”I'll give you the address,” and upon the back of one of his own cards he wrote: Sig.

Vittoreo Matteo, 710 Marabon Building, Boston, Ma.s.s., U. S. A., care Horace G. Daw.

That night he wrote a careful letter of explanation to Horace G. Daw.

Two weeks to wait. Oh, well, Wallingford could amuse himself by working up a local reputation. It was while he was considering this, upon the following day, that a farmer with three teeth drove up in a dilapidated spring-wagon drawn by a pair of beautiful bay horses, and stopped in front of Jim Ranger's livery and sales stable to talk hay.

Wallingford, sitting in front of the hotel in lazy meditation, walked over and examined the team with a critical eye. They were an exquisite match, perfect in every limb, with manes and tails and coats of that peculiar silken sheen belonging to perfect health and perfect care.

”Very nice team you have,” observed Wallingford.

”Finest match team anywhere,” agreed Abner Follis, plucking at his gray goatee and mouthing a straw, ”an' I make a business o' raisin'

thoroughbreds. Cousins, they are, an' without a blemish on 'em. An'

trot--you'd ought to see that team trot.”

”What'll you take for them?” asked Wallingford.

The response of Abner Follis was quick and to the point. He kept a careful apprais.e.m.e.nt upon all his live stock.

”Seven hundred and fifty,” said he, naming a price that allowed ample leeway for d.i.c.kering.

It was almost a disappointment to him that Wallingford produced his wallet, counted over the exact amount that had been asked, and said briefly:

”Unhitch them.”

”Well!” said Abner, slowly taking the money and throwing away his straw in petulance. It was dull and uninteresting to have a bargain concluded so quickly.

Wallingford, however, knew what he was about. Within an hour everybody in town knew of his purchase. Speculation that had been mildly active concerning him now became feverish. He was a rich nabob with money to throw away; had so much money that he would not even d.i.c.ker in a horse deal--and this was the height of human recklessness in Blakeville.

Wallingford, purchasing Jim Ranger's new buggy and his best set of harness, drove to the Bubbles', the eyed of all observers, but before he had opened the gate Mrs. Bubble was on the porch.

”Jonas ain't at home,” she shrilled down at him.

”Yes, I know,” replied Wallingford; ”but I came to see Miss Fannie.”

”She's busy,” said Mrs. Bubble with forbidding loftiness. ”She's in the kitchen getting dinner.”

Wallingford, however, strode quite confidently up the walk, and by the time he reached the porch Miss Fannie was in the door, removing her ap.r.o.n.

”What a pretty turnout!” she exclaimed.

”It's a beauty,” agreed Wallingford. ”I just bought it from Abner Follis.”