The methods of Messrs. Colt and Adams, the Boston firm of building movers, were certainly progressive, if promptness in getting to work is any criterion. Two days after the acceptance of their terms by Mr. Williams, a freight car full of apparatus arrived at East Harniss. Then came a foreman and a gang of laborers. Horses were hired, and within a week the “pure Colonial” was off its foundations and on its way to the Edwards lot. The moving was no light task. The big house must be brought along the Shore Road to the junction with the Hill Boulevard, then swung into that aristocratic highway and carried up the long slope, around the wide curve, to its destination.

Mr. Phinney, though he hated the whole operation, those having it in charge, and the mighty Williams especially, could not resist stealing down to see how his successful rivals were progressing with the work he had hoped to do. It caused him much chagrin to see that they were getting on so very well. One morning, after breakfast, as he stood at the corner of the Boulevard and the Shore Road, he found himself engaged in a mental calculation.

Three days more and they would swing into the Boulevard; four or five days after that and they would be abreast the Edwards lot. Another day and . . . Poor Olive! She would be homeless. Where would she go? It was too early for a reply from the Omaha cousin, but Simeon, having questioned the minister, had little hope that that reply would be favorable. Still it was a chance, and if the money SHOULD come before the “pure Colonial” reached the Edwards lot, then the widow would at least not be driven penniless from her home. She would have to leave that home in any event, but she could carry out her project of opening another shop in one of the neighboring towns. Otherwise . . . Mr. Phinney swore aloud.

“Humph!” said a voice behind him. “I agree with you, though I don't know what it's all about. I ain't heard anything better put for a long while.”

Simeon spun around, as he said afterwards, “like a young one's pinwheel.” At his elbow stood Captain Berry, the depot master, hands in pockets, cigar in mouth, the personification of calmness and imperturbability. He had come out of his house, which stood close to the corner, and walked over to join his friend.

“Land of love!” exclaimed Simeon. “Why don't you scare a fellow to death, tiptoein' around? I never see such a cat-foot critter!”

Captain Sol smiled. “Jumpin' it, ain't they?” he said, nodding toward the “Colonial.” “Be there by the tenth, won't it?”

“Tenth!” Mr. Phinney sniffed disgust. “It'll be there by the sixth, or I miss my guess.”

“Yup. Say, Sim, how soon could you land that shanty of mine in the road if I give you the job to move it?”

“I couldn't get it up to the Main Street lot inside of a fortnight,” replied Sim, after a moment's reflection. “Fur's gettin' it in the road goes, I could have it here day after to-morrow if I had gang enough.”

The depot master took the cigar out of his mouth and blew a ring of smoke. “All right,” he drawled, “get gang enough.”

Phinney jumped. “You mean you've decided to take up with Payne's offer and swap your lot for his?” he gasped. “Why, only two or three days ago you said—”

“Ya-as. That was two or three days ago, and I've been watchin' the 'Colonial' since. I cal'late the movin' habit's catchin'. You have your gang here by noon to-day.”

“Sol Berry, are you crazy? You ain't seen Abner Payne; he's out of town—”

“Don't have to see him. He's made me an offer and I'll write and accept it.”

“But you've got to have a selectmen's permit to move—”

“Got it. I went up and saw the chairman an hour ago. He's a friend of mine. I nominated him town-meetin' day.”

“But,” stammered Phinney, very much upset by the suddenness of it all, “you ain't got my price nor—”

“Drat your price! Give it when I ask it. See here, Sim, are you goin' to have my house in the middle of the road by day after to-morrer? Or was that just talk?”

“'Twa'n't talk. I can have it there, but—”

“All right,” said Captain Sol coolly, “then have it.”

Hands in pockets, he strolled away. Simeon sat down on a rock by the roadside and whistled.

However, whistling was a luxurious and time-wasting method of expressing amazement, and Mr. Phinney could not afford luxuries just then. For the rest of that day he was a busy man. As Bailey Stitt expressed it, he “flew round like a sand flea in a mitten,” hiring laborers, engaging masons, and getting his materials ready. That very afternoon the masons began tearing down the chimneys of the little Berry house. Before the close of the following day it was on the rollers. By two of the day after that it was in the middle of the Shore Road, just when its mover had declared it should be. They were moving it, furniture and all, and Captain Sol was, as he said, going to “stay right aboard all the voyage.” No cooking could be done, of course, but the Captain arranged to eat at Mrs. Higgins's hospitable table during the transit. His sudden freak was furnishing material for gossip throughout the village, but he did not care. Gossip concerning his actions was the last thing in the world to trouble Captain Sol Berry.

The Williams's “Colonial” was moving toward the corner at a rapid rate, and the foreman of the Boston moving firm walked over to see Mr. Phinney.

“Say,” he observed to Simeon, who, the perspiration streaming down his face, was resting for a moment before recommencing his labor of arranging rollers; “say,” observed the foreman, “we'll be ready to turn into the Boulevard by tomorrer night and you're blockin' the way.”

“That's all right,” said Simeon, “we'll be past the Boulevard corner by that time.”

He thought he was speaking the truth, but next morning, before work began, Captain Berry appeared. He had had breakfast and strolled around to the scene of operations.

“Well,” asked Phinney, “how'd it seem to sleep on wheels?”

“Tiptop,” replied the depot master. “Like it fust rate. S'pose my next berth will be somewheres up there, won't it?”

He was pointing around the corner instead of straight ahead. Simeon gaped, his mouth open.

“Up THERE?” he cried. “Why, of course not. That's the Boulevard. We're goin' along the Shore Road.”

“That so? I guess not. We're goin' by the Boulevard. Can go that way, can't we?”

“Can?” repeated Simeon aghast. “Course we CAN! But it's like boxin' the whole compass backward to get ha'f a p'int east of no'th. It's way round Robin Hood's barn. It'll take twice as long and cost—”

“That's good,” interrupted the Captain. “I like to travel, and I'm willin' to pay for it. Think of the view I'll get on the way.”

“But your permit from the selectmen—” began Phinney. Berry held up his hand.

“My permit never said nothin' about the course to take,” he answered, his eye twinkling just a little. “There, Sim, you're wastin' time. I move by the Hill Boulevard.”

And into the Boulevard swung the Berry house. The Colt and Adams foreman was an angry man when he saw the beams laid in that direction. He rushed over and asked profane and pointed questions.

“Thought you said you was goin' straight ahead?” he demanded.

“Thought I was,” replied Simeon, “but, you see, I'm only navigator of this craft, not owner.”

“Where is the blankety blank?” asked the foreman.

“If you're referrin' to Cap'n Berry, I cal'late you'll find him at the depot,” answered Phinney. To the depot went the foreman. Receiving little satisfaction there, he hurried to the home of his employer, Mr. Williams. The magnate, red-faced and angry, returned with him to the station. Captain Sol received them blandly. Issy, who heard the interview which followed, declared that the depot master was so cool that “an iceberg was a bonfire 'longside of him.” Issy's description of this interview, given to a dozen townspeople within the next three hours, was as follows:

“Mr. Williams,” said the wide-eyed Issy, “he comes postin' into the waitin' room, his foreman with him. Williams marches over to Cap'n Sol and he says, 'Berry,' he says, 'are you responsible for the way that house of yours is moved?'

“Cap'n Sol bowed and smiled. 'Yes,' says he, sweet as a fresh scallop.

“'You're movin' it to Main Street, aren't you? I so understood.'

“'You understood correct. That's where she's bound.'

“'Then what do you mean by turning out of your road and into mine?'

“'Oh, I don't own any road. Have you bought the Boulevard? The selectmen ought to have told us that. I s'posed it was town thoroughfare.'

“Mr. Williams colored up a little. 'I didn't mean my road in that sense,' he says. 'But the direct way to Main Street is along the shore, and everybody knows it. Now why do you turn from that into the Boulevard?'

“Cap'n Sol took a cigar from his pocket. 'Have one?' says he, passin' it toward Mr. Williams. 'No? Too soon after breakfast, I s'pose. Why do I turn off?' he goes on. 'Well, I'll tell you. I'm goin' to stay right aboard my shack while it's movin', and it's so much pleasanter a ride up the hill that I thought I'd go that way. I always envied them who could afford a house on the Boulevard, and now I've got the chance to have one there—for a spell. I'm sartin I shall enjoy it.'

“The foreman growled, disgusted. Mr. Williams got redder yet.

“'Don't you understand?' he snorts. 'You're blockin' the way of the house I'M movin'. I have capable men with adequate apparatus to move it, and they would be able to go twice as fast as your one-horse country outfit. You're blockin' the road. Now they must follow you. It's an outrage!'

“Cap'n Sol smiled once more. 'Too bad,' says he. 'It's a pity such a nice street ain't wider. If it was my street in my town—I b'lieve that's what you call East Harniss, ain't it?—seems to me I'd widen it.'

“The boss of 'my town' ground his heel into the sand. 'Berry,' he snaps, 'are you goin' to move that house over the Boulevard ahead of mine?'

“The Cap'n looked him square in the eye. 'Williams,' says he, 'I am.'

“The millionaire turned short and started to go.

“'You'll pay for it,' he snarls, his temper gettin' free at last.

“'I cal'late to,' purrs the Cap'n. 'I gen'rally do pay for what I want, and a fair price, at that. I never bought in cheap mortgages and held 'em for clubs over poor folks, never in my life. Good mornin'.'

“And right to Mr. Williams's own face, too,” concluded Issy. “WHAT do you think of that?”

Here was defiance of authority and dignity, a sensation which should have racked East Harniss from end to end. But most of the men in the village, the tradespeople particularly, had another matter on their minds, namely, Major Cuthbertson Scott Hardee, of “Silverleaf Hall.” The Major and his debts were causing serious worriment.

The creditors of the Major met, according to agreement, on the Monday evening following their previous gathering at the club. Obed Gott, one of the first to arrive, greeted his fellow members with an air of gloomy triumph and a sort of condescending pity.

Higgins, the “general store” keeper, acting as self-appointed chairman, asked if anyone had anything to report. For himself, he had seen the Major and asked point-blank for payment of his bill. The Major had been very polite and was apparently much concerned that his fellow townsmen should have been inconvenienced by any neglect of his. He would write to his attorneys at once, so he said.

“He said a whole lot more, too,” added Higgins. “Said he had never been better served than by the folks in this town, and that I kept a fine store, and so on and so forth. But I haven't got any money yet. Anybody else had any better luck?”

No one had, although several had had similar interviews with the master of “Silverleaf Hall.”

“Obed looks as if he knew somethin',” remarked Weeks. “What is it, Obed?”

Mr. Gott scornfully waved his hand.

“You fellers make me laugh,” he said. “You talk and talk, but you don't do nothin'. I b'lieve in doin', myself. When I went home t'other night, thinks I: 'There's one man that might know somethin' 'bout old Hardee, and that's Godfrey, the hotel man.' So I wrote to Godfrey up to Boston and I got a letter from him. Here 'tis.”

He read the letter aloud. Mr. Godfrey wrote that he knew nothing about Major Hardee further than that he had been able to get nothing from him in payment for his board.

“So I seized his trunk,” the letter concluded. “There was nothing in it worth mentioning, but I took it on principle. The Major told me a lot about writing to his attorneys for money, but I didn't pay much attention to that. I'm afraid he's an old fraud, but I can't help liking him, and if I had kept on running my hotel I guess he would have got away scot-free.”

“There!” exclaimed the triumphant Obed, with a sneer, “I guess that settles it, don't it? Maybe you'd be willin' to turn your bills over to Squire Baker now.”

But they were not willing. Higgins argued, and justly, that although the Major was in all probability a fraud, not even a lawyer could get water out of a stone, and that when a man had nothing, suing him was a waste of time and cash.

“Besides,” he said, “there's just a chance that he may have attorneys and property somewheres else. Let's write him a letter and every one of us sign it, tellin' him that we'll call on him Tuesday night expectin' to be paid in full. If we call and don't get any satisfaction, why, we ain't any worse off, and then we can—well, run him out of town, if nothin' more.”

So the letter was written and signed by every man there. It was a long list of signatures and an alarming total of indebtedness. The letter was posted that night.

The days that followed seemed long to Obed. He was ill-natured at home and ugly at the shop, and Polena declared that he was “gettin' so a body couldn't live with him.” Her own spirits were remarkably high, and Obed noticed that, as the days went by, she seemed to be unusually excited. On Thursday she announced that she was going to Orham to visit her niece, one Sarah Emma Cahoon, and wouldn't be back right off. He knew better than to object, and so she went.

That evening each of the signers of the letter to Major Hardee received a courteous note saying that the Major would be pleased to receive the gentlemen at the Hall. Nothing was said about payment.

So, after some discussion, the creditors marched in procession across the fields and up to “Silverleaf Hall.”

“Hardee's been to Orham to-day,” whispered the keeper of the livery stable, as they entered the yard. “He drove over this mornin' and come back to-night.”

“DROVE over!” exclaimed Obed, halting in his tracks. “He did? Where'd he get the team? I'll bet five dollars you was soft enough to let him have it, and never said a word. Well, if you ain't—By jimmy! you wait till I get at him! I'll show you that he can't soft soap me.”

Augustus met them at the door and ushered them into the old-fashioned parlor. The Major, calm, cool, and imperturbably polite, was waiting to receive them. He made some observation concerning the weather.

“The day's fine enough,” interrupted Obed, pushing to the front, “but that ain't what we come here to talk about. Are you goin' to pay us what you owe? That's what we want to know.”

The “gentleman of the old school” did not answer immediately. Instead he turned to the solemn servant at his elbow.

“Augustus,” he said, “you may make ready.” Then, looking serenely at the irate Mr. Gott, whose clenched fist rested under the center table, which he had thumped to emphasize his demands, the Major asked:

“I beg your pardon, my dear sir, but what is the total of my indebtedness to you?”

“Nineteen dollars and twenty-eight cents, and I want you to understand that—”

Major Hardee held up a slim, white hand.

“One moment, if you please,” he said. “Now, Augustus.”

Augustus opened the desk in the corner and produced an imposing stack of bank notes. Then he brought forth neat piles of halves, quarters, dimes, and pennies, and arranged the whole upon the table. Obed's mouth and those of his companions gaped in amazement.

“Have you your bill with you, Mr. Gott?” inquired the Major.

Dazedly Mr. Gott produced the required document.

“Thank you. Augustus, nineteen twenty-eight to this gentleman. Kindly receipt the bill, Mr. Gott, if you please. A mere formality, of course, but it is well to be exact. Thank you, sir. And now, Mr. Higgins.”

One by one the creditors shamefacedly stepped forward, received the amount due, receipted the bill, and stepped back again. Mr. Peters, the photographer, was the last to sign.

“Gentlemen,” said the Major, “I am sorry that my carelessness in financial matters should have caused you this trouble, but now that you are here, a representative gathering of East Harniss's men of affairs, upon this night of all nights, it seems fitting that I should ask for your congratulations. Augustus.”

The wooden-faced Augustus retired to the next room and reappeared carrying a tray upon which were a decanter and glasses.

“Gentlemen,” continued the Major, “I have often testified to my admiration and regard for your—perhaps I may now say OUR—charming village. This admiration and regard has extended to the fair daughters of the township. It may be that some of you have conscientious scruples against the use of intoxicants. These scruples I respect, but I am sure that none of you will refuse to at least taste a glass of wine with me when I tell you that I have this day taken one of the fairest to love and cherish during life.”

He stepped to the door of the dining room, opened it, and said quietly, “My dear, will you honor us with your presence?”

There was a rustle of black silk and there came through the doorway the stately form of her who had been Mrs. Polena Ginn.

“Gentlemen,” said the Major, “permit me to present to you my wife, the new mistress of 'Silverleaf Hall.'”

The faces of the ex-creditors were pictures of astonishment. Mr. Gott's expressive countenance turned white, then red, and then settled to a mottled shade, almost as if he had the measles. Polena rushed to his side.

“O Obed!” she exclaimed. “I know we'd ought to have told you, but 'twas only Tuesday the Major asked me, and we thought we'd keep it a secret so's to s'prise you. Mr. Langworthy over to Orham married us, and—”

“My dear,” her husband blandly interrupted, “we will not intrude our private affairs upon the patience of these good friends. And now, gentlemen, let me propose a toast: To the health and happiness of the mistress of 'Silverleaf Hall'! Brother Obed, I—”

The outside door closed with a slam; “Brother Obed” had fled.

A little later, when the rest of the former creditors of the Major came out into the moonlight, they found their companion standing by the gate gazing stonily into vacancy. “Hen” Leadbetter, who, with Higgins, brought up the rear of the procession, said reflectively:

“When he fust fetched out that stack of money I couldn't scarcely b'lieve my eyes. I begun to think that we fellers had put our foot in it for sartin, and had lost a mighty good customer; but, of course, it's all plain enough NOW.”

“Yes,” remarked Weeks with a nod; “I allers heard that P'lena kept a mighty good balance in the bank.”

“It looks to me,” said Higgins slyly, “as if we owed Obed here a vote of thanks. How 'bout that, Obed?”

And then Major Hardee's new brother-in-law awoke with a jump.

“Aw, you go to grass!” he snarled, and tramped savagely off down the hill.