“H-have a little habit of collectin' 'em,” he answered, “same as you do books. G-guess some of 'em hain't as valuable.” William Wetherell was beginning to think that Jethro knew something also of such refinements of cruelty as were practised by Caligula. He drew forth his cowhide wallet and produced from it a folded piece of newspaper which must, Wetherell felt sure, contain the mortgage in question. “There's one power I always wished I had,” he observed, “the power to make folks see some things as I see 'em. I was acrost the Water to-night, on my hill farm, when the sun set, and the sky up thar above the mountain was all golden bars, and the river all a-flamin' purple, just as if it had been dyed by some of them Greek gods you're readin' about. Now if I could put them things on paper, I wouldn't care a haycock to be President. No, sir.” The storekeeper's amazement as he listened to this speech may be imagined. Was this Jethro Bass? If so, here was a side of him the existence of which no one suspected. Wetherell forgot the matter in hand. “Why don't you put that on paper?” he exclaimed. Jethro smiled, and made a deprecating motion with his thumb. “Sometimes when I hain't busy, I drop into the state library at the capital and enjoy myself. It's like goin' to another world without any folks to bother you. Er--er--there's books I'd like to talk to you about--sometime.” “But I thought you told me you didn't read much, Mr. Bass?” He made no direct reply, but unfolded the newspaper in his hand, and then Wetherell saw that it was only a clipping. “H-happened to run across this in a newspaper--if this hain't this county, I wahn't born and raised here. If it hain't Coniston Mountain about seven o'clock of a June evening, I never saw Coniston Mountain. Er--listen to this.” Whereupon he read, with a feeling which Wetherell had not supposed he possessed, an extract: and as the storekeeper listened his blood began to run wildly. At length Jethro put down the paper without glancing at his companion. “There's somethin' about that that fetches you spinnin' through the air,” he said slowly. “Sh-showed it to Jim Willard, editor of the Newcastle Guardian. Er--what do you think he said?” “I don't know,” said Wetherell, in a low voice. “Willard said, 'Bass, w-wish you'd find me that man. I'll give him five dollars every week for a letter like that--er--five dollars a week.'” He paused, folded up the paper again and put it in his pocket, took out a card and handed it to Wetherell. James G. Willard, Editor. Newcastle Guardian. “That's his address,” said Jethro. “Er--guess you'll know what to do with it. Er--five dollars a week--five dollars a week.” “How did you know I wrote this article?” said Wetherell, as the card trembled between his fingers. “K-knowed the place was Coniston seen from the 'east, knowed there wahn't any one is Brampton or Harwich could have done it--g-guessed the rest--guessed the rest.”