The depot master and his friend, Mr. Phinney, were not the only ones whose souls were troubled that evening. Obed Gott, as he stood at the foot of the stairs leading to the meeting place of the “club,” was vexed and worried. His cousin, Captain Stitt, had gone into the house and up to his room, and Obed, after seeing him safely on his way, had returned to the club. But, instead of entering immediately, he stood in the Higgins doorway, thinking, and frowning as he thought. And the subject of his thought was the idol of feminine East Harniss, the “old-school gentleman,” Major Cuthbertson Scott Hardee.

The Major first came to East Harniss one balmy morning in March—came, and created an immediate sensation. “Redny” Blount, who drives the “depot wagon,” was wrestling with a sample trunk belonging to the traveling representative of Messrs. Braid & Gimp, of Boston, when he heard a voice—and such a voice—saying:

“Pardon me, my dear sir, but may I trouble you for one moment?”

Now “Redny” was not used to being addressed as “my dear sir.” He turned wonderingly, and saw the Major, in all his glory, standing beside him. “Redny's” gaze took in the tall, slim figure in the frock coat tightly buttoned; took in the white hair, worn just long enough to touch the collar of the frock coat; the long, drooping white mustache and imperial; the old-fashioned stock and open collar; the black and white checked trousers; the gaiters; and, last of all, the flat brimmed, carefully brushed, old-fashioned silk hat. Mr. Blount gasped.

“Huh?” he said.

“Pardon me, my dear sir,” repeated the Major, blandly, smoothly, and with an air of—well, not condescension, but gracious familiarity. “Will you be so extremely kind as to inform me concerning the most direct route to the hotel or boarding house?”

The word “hotel” was the only part of this speech that struck home to “Redny's” awed mind.

“Hotel?” he repeated, slowly. “Why, yes, sir. I'm goin' right that way. If you'll git right into my barge I'll fetch you there in ten minutes.”

There was enough in this reply, and the manner in which it was delivered, to have furnished the station idlers, in the ordinary course of events, with matter for gossip and discussion for a week. Mr. Blount had not addressed a person as “sir” since he went to school. But no one thought of this; all were too much overcome by the splendor of the Major's presence.

“Thank you,” replied the Major. “Thank you. I am obliged to you, sir. Augustus, you may place the baggage in this gentleman's conveyance.”

Augustus was an elderly negro, very black as to face and a trifle shabby as to clothes, but with a shadow of his master's gentility, like a reflected luster, pervading his person. He bowed low, departed, and returned dragging a large, old style trunk, and carrying a plump valise.

“Augustus,” said the Major, “you may sit upon the seat with the driver. That is,” he added, courteously, “if Mr.—Mr.—”

“Blount,” prompted the gratified “Redny.”

“If Mr. Blount will be good enough to permit you to do so.”

“Why, sartin. Jump right up. Giddap, you!”

There was but one passenger, besides the Major and Augustus, in the “depot wagon” that morning. This passenger was Mrs. Polena Ginn, who had been to Brockton on a visit. To Mrs. Polena the Major, raising his hat in a manner that no native of East Harniss could acquire by a lifetime of teaching, observed that it was a beautiful morning. The flustered widow replied that it “was so.” This was the beginning of a conversation that lasted until the “Central House” was reached, a conversation that left Polena impressed with the idea that her new acquaintance was as near the pink of perfection as mortal could be.

“It wa'n't his clothes, nuther,” she told her brother, Obed Gott, as they sat at the dinner table. “I don't know what 'twas, but you could jest see that he was a gentleman all over. I wouldn't wonder if he was one of them New York millionaires, like Mr. Williams—but SO different. 'Redny' Blount says he see his name onto the hotel register and 'twas 'Cuthbertson Scott Hardee.' Ain't that a tony name for you? And his darky man called him 'Major.' I never see sech manners on a livin' soul! Obed, I DO wish you'd stop eatin' pie with a knife.”

Under these pleasing circumstances did Major Cuthbertson Scott Hardee make his first appearance in East Harniss, and the reputation spread abroad by Mr. Blount and Mrs. Ginn was confirmed as other prominent citizens met him, and fell under the spell. In two short weeks he was the most popular and respected man in the village. The Methodist minister said, at the Thursday evening sociable, that “Major Hardee is a true type of the old-school gentleman,” whereupon Beriah Higgins, who was running for selectman, and therefore felt obliged to be interested in all educational matters, asked whereabouts that school was located, and who was teaching it now.

It was a treat to see the Major stroll down Main Street to the post office every pleasant spring morning. Coat buttoned tight, silk hat the veriest trifle on one side, one glove on and its mate carried with the cane in the other hand, and the buttonhole bouquet—always the bouquet—as fresh and bright and jaunty as its wearer himself.

It seemed that every housekeeper whose dwelling happened to be situated along that portion of the main road had business in the front yard at the time of the Major's passing. There were steps to be swept, or rugs to be shaken, or doorknobs to be polished just at that particular time. Dialogues like the following interrupted the triumphal progress at three minute intervals:

“Good-morning, Mrs. Sogberry. GOOD-morning. A delightful morning. Busy as the proverbial bee once more, I see. I can never cease to admire the industry and model neatness of the Massachusetts housekeeper. And how is your charming daughter this morning? Better, I trust?”

“Well, now, Major Hardee, I don't know. Abbie ain't so well's I wish she was. She set up a spell yesterday, but the doctor says she ain't gittin' along the way she'd ought to. I says to him, s'I, 'Abbie ain't never what you'd call a reel hearty eater, but, my land! when she don't eat NOTHIN',' I says—”

And so on and so on, with the Major always willing to listen, always sympathetic, and always so charmingly courteous.

The Central House, East Harniss's sole hotel, and a very small one at that, closed its doors on April 10th. Mr. Godfrey, its proprietor, had come to the country for his health. He had been inveigled, by an advertisement in a Boston paper, into buying the Central House at East Harniss. It would afford him, so he reasoned, light employment and a living. The employment was light enough, but the living was lighter. He kept the Central House for a year. Then he gave it up as a bad job and returned to the city. “I might keep my health if I stayed,” he admitted, in explaining his position to Captain Berry, “but if I want to keep to what little money I have left, I'd better go. Might as well die of disease as starvation.”

Everyone expected that the “gentleman of the old school” would go also, but one evening Abner Payne, whose business is “real estate, fire and life insurance, justice of the peace, and houses to let and for sale,” rushed into the post office to announce that the Major had leased the “Gorham place,” furnished, and intended to make East Harniss his home.

“He likes the village so well he's goin' to stay here always,” explained Abner. “Says he's been all 'round the world, but he never see a place he liked so well's he does East Harniss. How's that for high, hey? And you callin' it a one-horse town, Obed Gott!”

The Major moved into the “Gorham place” the next morning. It—the “place”—was an old-fashioned house on the hill, though not on Mr. Williams' “Boulevard.” It had been one of the finest mansions in town once on a time, but had deteriorated rapidly since old Captain Elijah Gorham died. Augustus carried the Major's baggage from the hotel to the house. This was done very early and none of the natives saw the transfer. There was some speculation as to how the darky managed to carry the big trunk single-handed; one of two persons asked Augustus this very question, but they received no satisfactory answer. Augustus was habitually close-mouthed. Mr. Godfrey left town that same morning on the first train.

The Major christened his new home “Silver-leaf Hall,” because of two great “silver-leaf” trees that stood by the front door. He had some repairing, paper hanging and painting done, ordered a big stock of groceries from the local dealer, and showed by his every action that his stay in East Harniss was to be a lengthy one. He hired a pew in the Methodist church, and joined the “club.” Augustus did the marketing for “Silver-leaf Hall,” and had evidently been promoted to the position of housekeeper.

The Major moved in April. It was now the third week in June and his popularity was, if possible, more pronounced than ever. On this particular, the evening of Captain Bailey Stitt's unexpected arrival, Obed had been sitting by the tea table in his dining room after supper, going over the account books of his paint, paper, and oil store. His sister, Mrs. Polena Ginn, was washing dishes in the kitchen.

“Wat's that letter you're readin', Obed?” she called from her post by the sink.

“Nothin',” said her brother, gruffly, crumpling up the sheet of note paper and jamming it into his pocket.

“My sakes! you're shorter'n pie crust to-night. What's the matter? Anything gone wrong at the store?”

“No.”

Silence again, only broken by the clatter of dishes. Then Polena said:

“Obed, when are you goin' to take me up to the clubroom so's I can see that picture of Major Hardee that he presented the club with? Everybody says it's just lovely. Sarah T. says it's perfectly elegant, only not quite so handsome as the Major reelly is. She says it don't flatter him none.”

“Humph! Anybody'd think Hardee was some kind of a wonder, the way you women folks go on 'bout him. How do you know but what he might be a reg'lar fraud? Looks ain't everything.”

“Well, I never! Obed Gott, I should think you'd be 'shamed of yourself, talkin' that way. I shan't speak another word to you to-night. I never see you act so unlikely. An old fraud! The idea! That grand, noble man!”

Obed tried to make some sort of half-hearted apology, but his sister wouldn't listen to it. Polena's dignity was touched. She was a woman of consequence in East Harniss, was Polena. Her husband had, at his death, left her ten thousand dollars in her own right, and she owned bonds and had money in the Wellmouth Bank. Nobody, not even her brother, was allowed to talk to her in that fashion.

To tell the truth, Obed was sorry he had offended his sister. He had been throwing out hints of late as to the necessity of building an addition to the paint and oil store, and had cast a longing look upon a portion of Polena's ten thousand. The lady had not promised to extend the financial aid, but she had gone so far as to say she would think about it. So Obed regretted his insinuations against the Major's integrity.

After a while he threw the account books upon the top of the chest of drawers, put on his hat and coat and announced that he was going over to the depot for a “spell.” Polena did not deign to reply, so, after repeating the observation, he went out and slammed the door.

Now, two hours later, as he stood in the doorway of the club, he was debating what he should do in a certain matter. That matter concerned Major Hardee and was, therefore, an extremely delicate one. At length Mr. Gott climbed the narrow stairs and entered the clubroom. It was blue with tobacco smoke.

The six or eight members present hailed him absently and went on with their games of checkers or “seven-up.” He attempted a game of checkers and lost, which did not tend to make his temper any sweeter. His ill nature was so apparent that Beriah Higgins, who suffered from dyspepsia and consequent ill temper, finally commented upon it.

“What's the matter with you, Obed?” he asked tartly. “Too much of P'lena's mince pie?”

“No,” grunted Mr. Gott shortly.

“What is it, then? Ain't paint sellin' well?”

“Sellin' well 'nough. I could sell a hundred ton of paint to-morrow, more'n likely, but when it come to gittin' the money for it, that would be another story. If folks would pay their bills there wouldn't be no trouble.”

“Who's stuck you now?”

“I don't s'pose anybody has, but it's just as bad when they don't pay up. I've got to have money to keep a-goin' with. It don't make no diff'rence if it's as good a customer as Major Hardee; he ought to remember that we ain't all rich like him and—”

A general movement among all the club members interrupted him. The checker players left their boards and came over; the “seven-up” devotees dropped their cards and joined the circle.

“What was that you said?” asked Higgins, uneasily. “The Major owin' you money, was it?”

“Oh, course I know he's all right and a fine man and all that,” protested Obed, feeling himself put on the defensive. “But that ain't it. What's a feller goin' to do when he needs the money and gets a letter like that?”

He drew the crumpled sheet of note paper from his pocket, and threw it on the table. Higgins picked it up and read it aloud, as follows:

SILVERLEAF HALL, June 20th.

MY DEAR MR. GOTT: I am in receipt of your courteous communication of recent date. I make it an unvarying rule to keep little ready money here in East Harniss, preferring rather to let it remain at interest in the financial institutions of the cities. Another rule of mine, peculiar, I dare say—even eccentric, if you like—is never to pay by check. I am expecting remittances from my attorneys, however, and will then bear you in mind. Again thanking you for your courtesy, and begging you to extend to your sister my kindest regards, I remain, my dear sir,

Yours very respectfully,

CUTHBERTSON SCOTT HARDEE.

P. S.—I shall be delighted to have the pleasure of entertaining your sister and yourself at dinner at the hall on any date agreeable to you. Kindly let me hear from you regarding this at your earliest convenience. I must insist upon this privilege, so do not disappoint me, I beg.

The reception accorded this most gentlemanly epistle was peculiar. Mr. Higgins laid it upon the table and put his hand into his own pocket. So did Ezra Weeks, the butcher; Caleb Small, the dry goods dealer; “Hen” Leadbetter, the livery stable keeper; “Bash” Taylor, the milkman, and three or four others. And, wonder of wonders, each produced a sheet of note paper exactly like Obed's.

They spread them out on the table. The dates were, of course, different, and they differed in other minor particulars, but in the main they were exactly alike. And each one of them ended with an invitation to dinner.

The members of the club looked at each other in amazement. Higgins was the first to speak.

“Godfrey mighty!” he exclaimed. “Say, this is funny, ain't it? It's more'n funny; it's queer! By jimmy, it's more'n that—it's serious! Look here, fellers; is there anybody in this crowd that the Major's paid for anything any time?”

They waited. No one spoke. Then, with one impulse, every face swung about and looked up to where, upon the wall, hung the life-size photograph of the Major, dignified, gracious, and gilt-framed. It had been presented to the club two months before by Cuthbertson Scott Hardee, himself.

“Ike—Ike Peters,” said Higgins. “Say, Ike—has he ever paid you for havin' that took?”

Mr. Peters, who was the town photographer, reddened, hesitated, and then stammered, “Why, no, he ain't, yet.”

“Humph!” grunted Higgins. No one else said anything. One or two took out pocket memorandum books and went over some figures entered therein. Judging by their faces the results of these calculations were not pleasing. Obed was the first to break the painful silence:

“Well!” he exclaimed, sarcastically; “ain't nobody got nothin' to say? If they ain't, I have. Or, at any rate, I've got somethin' to do.” And he rose and started to put on his coat.

“Hi! hold on a minute, Obed, you loon!” cried Higgins. “Where are you goin'?”

“I'm goin' to put my bill in Squire Baker's hands for c'lection, and I'm goin' to do it tonight, too.”

He was on his way to the door, but two or three ran to stop him.

“Don't be a fool, Obed,” said Higgins. “Don't go off ha'f cocked. Maybe we're gittin' scared about nothin'. We don't know but we'll get every cent that's owed us.”

“Don't KNOW! Well, I ain't goin' to wait to find out. What makes me b'ilin' is to think how we've set still and let a man that we never saw afore last March, and don't know one blessed thing about, run up bills and RUN 'em up. How we come to be such everlastin' fools I don't see! What did we let him have the stuff for? Why didn't we make him pay? I—”

“Now see here, Obed Gott,” broke in Weeks, the butcher, “you know why just as well as we do. Why, blast it!” he added earnestly, “if he was to come into my shop to-morrow and tip that old high hat of his, and smile and say 'twas a fine mornin and 'How's the good lady to-day?' and all that, he'd get ha'f the meat there was in the place, and I wouldn't say 'Boo'! I jest couldn't, that's all.”

This frank statement was received with approving nods and a chorus of muttered “That's so's.”

“It looks to me this way,” declared Higgins. “If the Major's all right, he's a mighty good customer for all of us. If he ain't all right, we've got to find it out, but we're in too deep to run resks of gettin' him mad 'fore we know for sure. Let's think it over for a week. Inside of that time some of us'll hint to him, polite but firm, you understand, that we've got to have something on account. A week from to-night we'll meet in the back room of my store, talk it over and decide what to do. What do you say?”

Everybody but Obed agreed. He declared that he had lost money enough and wasn't going to be a fool any longer. The others argued with him patiently for a while and then Leadbetter, the livery stable keeper, said sharply:

“See here, Obe! You ain't the only one in this. How much does the Major owe you?”

“Pretty nigh twenty dollars.”

“Humph! You're lucky. He owes me over thirty, and I guess Higgins is worse off than any of us. Ain't that so, Beriah?”

“About seventy, even money,” answered the grocer, shortly. “No use, Obed, we've got to hang together. Wait a week and then see. And, fellers,” he added, “don't tell a soul about this business, 'specially the women folks. There ain't a woman nor girl in this town that don't think Major Hardee's an A1, gold-plated saint, and twouldn't be safe to break the spell on a guess.”

Obed reached home even more disgruntled than when he left it. He sat up until after twelve, thinking and smoking, and when he went to bed he had a brilliant idea. The next morning he wrote a letter and posted it.