A dark featured, dark haired man entered Mr. Strout's store. The proprietor knew he was a stranger--perhaps just moved into town, and a prospective customer. “What can I do for you?” he inquired blandly, for he was capable of being affable. “I am looking for Mr. Hiram Maxwell.” “He ain't here no more.” “But he's your partner, isn't he?” “Didn't you read my sign? There ain't no partner on it.” “There ought to be.” Mr. Strout looked at the stranger with astonishment. Then he laughed, and, with a remembrance of Mr. Richard Ricker, asked sneeringly: “What asylum did you come from?” “I beg your pardon,” said the stranger. “I used to know Mr. Maxwell, and they told me in the city that he was a member of the firm of Strout and Maxwell.” “Who told ye?” “The trustees of the estate of Mr. Sawyer. Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer. Did you know him?” “I never knew any good of him. So they told yer, did they? That shows how much attention they give to business. The old store was burned up and that busted the firm. This store's mine from cellar to chimney.” “The old firm must have paid you well.” “Pretty well--but I made my money in State Street, speculating and I'm well fixed.” “I'm glad to hear that you've prospered. I wish my friend Maxwell had been as fortunate. What became of his interest and Mr. Sawyer's in the store?” “Went up in smoke, didn't I tell yer?” “I beg your pardon,” said the stranger again. “But doesn't your store stand on land belonging to the old firm?” Strout squinted at the stranger. “I guess you're a lawyer lookin' for points, but you're on the wrong track. You won't get 'em.” “I'm not a lawyer, Mr. Strout. I only inquired thinking my friend Mr. Maxwell might--” “Well, he won't,” said Strout. “Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer cheated me out of one store but he can't drive me out of this. He thought he was awful smart, but when he bought the store he didn't buy the land. It belonged to the town. I'm one of the selectmen, and one of the assessors found it out and told me, and I bought it--an' this store an' way up to the sky, and the land way down to China belongs to O. Strout.” “I am much obliged, Mr. Strout, for your courtesy--only one more question and then I'll try and find my friend Mr. Maxwell--if somebody will be kind enough to tell me where he is.” “You didn't ask where he was. If you want to know he's up to the Hospital. He's had his leg off, an'll have to walk on crutches.” “So bad as that,--I'm _very_ sorry,” said the stranger. “I've got to put up some orders--see that sign?” and he pointed to one which read: “When You've transacted your Business, Think of Home, Sweet Home.” “I beg your pardon, Mr. Strout, for taking so much of your valuable time. Do you know whether Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer is in town?”