He was reaching for his raincoat, to the dismay of Mrs. Chesbro, when a big man came in. The burgess recognized him as her husband, the redoubtable Arthur Chesbro of Summit. He had, quite consciously, had as little to do with Arthur Chesbro as possible, but there was an irreducible minimum of contact with the man that couldn't be avoided. He was all over the place in Summit, a closely neighboring borough, and he had feelers out through the entire area. You heard of his interest in this and that--bankrolling a resort, buying a professional building a county away and turning it over _fast_, snapping up timber rights to a farmer's woodlot and turning _them_ over to a firm from over the state line; snatching an FCC television construction permit from under the nose of heavy competition and then not building the station after all for mysterious and profitable reasons. He was a leading citizen, the burgess supposed, but he had nevertheless carefully avoided him whenever possible. He was not really sure why, but once after a couple of bourbons with Chief Brayer he had told the chief that he thought Arthur Chesbro suffered from a case of moral and ethical halitosis. Physically, Chesbro was a picture of success, rather soaked and winded success at the moment, having hiked in the rain from Sullivan Street and climbed the steep stairs to the burgess's second-floor office. He grasped the burgess's automatically extended hand with a firm and manly grip. "It's good to see you again, Henry," he intoned. "How's Bess?" "Fine, thanks." "And that boy of yours in medical school?" "Fine--uh, Arthur." He thought resignedly that you have to go along with these characters. And maybe, for God's sake, Chesbro actually did remember Bess and did remember hearing about Ted and actually did wish them well. Maybe. "I see you've met my wife, Henry. Well, it looks like quite a nasty downpour, doesn't it?" Now he's talking about the weather, for God's sake, to put me at my ease and get the conversation going on a topic of universal interest. Always start by talking about the weather; nobody's so shy or so stupid that he can't think of something to say about the weather. Well, sir, this time the maxim was going to backfire in Arthur Chesbro's red face. "Glad you mentioned that, Arthur," the burgess said briskly. "I'm leaving now. I'm afraid we're in for something worse than we got in thirty-five and thirty-nine, and I'm going to cruise around and have a look-see. I don't know why you came to see me on a dirty night like this, but if you can't put it in a nutshell it'll have to wait." Arthur Chesbro was disconcerted. "Didn't you see the story in the paper yesterday, Henry?" "I've been mighty busy," the burgess apologized, getting into his raincoat. "Well, it said, roughly--well, never mind the story. What I want to do is take the old Swanscomb Mill off the borough's hands and put a tidy rental into the communal pocket--_and_ hire a few of your local people."