“Not a cent; you’d spend it on whiskey,” Caleb said. Zeb’s face changed, the cringing attitude of a seeker of a favor fell from him, he snarled. “You’re a low-down, mean, sniveling shopkeeper!” he began. “I believe Jean’s tellin’ on yo’, sure enough, I--” Caleb rose from his seat, his great figure towering over the drunkard, as he took him by the collar and thrust him out the door. “Go home,” he said, “and don’t you ever come here again!” Zeb fell out of his hand and shambled up against the silver birch, sputtering. He hated Trench, but he was afraid to give voice to his wrath. Besides, Shot was between them now, every hair erect on the ridge of his spine. Zeb shook his fist and trembled. “Go home,” said Trench again, and then to the dog, “Come, Shot!” and he turned back contemptuously. As he did so, a tall farmer in brown homespun, with a wide-brimmed straw hat, drove up in his light wagon and got down to speak to him. The newcomer’s eyes fell on Zeb. “Drunk again,” he remarked. Trench nodded, and the two went into the office. Zeb Bartlett sank down under the trees and wept; he was just far enough gone to dissolve with self-pity. He believed Trench to be a monster who owed him two dollars for his very existence. He sat under the silver birch and babbled and shook his fist. Then his thirst overcame him, and he gathered himself together again and shambled down the road toward the nearest public house. He usually earned his drinks by scrubbing the floors, but this morning he had not felt like scrubbing and, because scrub he must, he hated Caleb Trench yet more, and turned once in the road to shake his fist and weep. Meanwhile Trench was going patiently through the papers of his new visitor, Aaron Todd. The stout mountaineer owned timberlands, had a sawmill and grew corn on his fertile lower meadows for the city markets. Todd was considered rich, and his money was sought for new investments. The get-rich-quick machines thrive upon the outlying districts. Todd had been asked to put more money in the Eaton Land Company; he had some there already and was suddenly smitten with a caution that sent him to Caleb. The lawyer was new, but the clear brain of the shopkeeper had been tested. Todd knew him, and watched as he turned the papers over and read the glowing circular of the Land Company, its capital, its stock and its declared dividends. It was alluring and high sounding, a gilt-edged affair. Trench looked up from the long perusal, the perpendicular line between his brows sharp as a scar. “Are you all in?” he asked abruptly. Todd shook his head. “No,” he said tersely, “about five thousand. I could put in ten, but that would strip me down to the ground. The interest’s large and I need it if I’m to run that sawmill another year.” “Don’t do it,” said Trench. As Todd took back the papers and strapped them together with an India-rubber band, his face was thoughtful. “Why not?” he asked at last; “you’ve got a reason.” Trench nodded.