“Had to drink out ’n a thimble, or some ‘n’ ’bout the size of it, at yore place when you kept a bar,” gurgled Bob in the cider-glass. “But I hain’t nothin’ ag’in you; the small doses of the stuff you sold was all that saved my life.” The flashily dressed young man sitting at Webb’s side laughed and slapped him familiarly on the knee. His name was Thornton. He used to “mix drinks” for Webb, and had been out of employment ever since his employer’s establishment had been closed by the sheriff, a few months before. “One on you, Harry,” he said, laughing again at the comical expression on his friend’s face; “you have to get up before day to get the best o’ these Georgia mossbacks.” Webb said nothing; and Bob, blushing triumphantly under Thornton’s compliment, and chewing a chip of dried beef that he had found on the counter, came back to his seat on the barrel. “Well, I reckon I _have_ done middlin’ well,” said Jim, bringing the conversation back to his own affairs with as much adroitness as he was capable of exercising. “I didn’t have a dollar to my name when I struck this town, ten year back. I started as a waiter in a restaurant nigh the railroad shops, then run a lemonade-stand at the park, an’ by makin’ every lick count, I gradually worked up to this shebang.” Henry Webb seemed to grow serious. He glanced stealthily at Thornton when Jim was not looking, crossed his legs nervously, and said: “Jim, me an’ you have been dickerin’ long enough; all this roundabout talk don’t bring us an inch nearer a trade. Now I’m goin’ to make you my last proposition about this stock o’ goods. My wife got her money out of her minin’ interest to-day, an’ wants to put it in some regular business o’ this sort. I’m goin’ to make you a round bid on the whole thing, lock, stock, an’ barrel, an’, on my honor, it’s my last offer. I ’ll give you ten thousand dollars in cash fer the key to the door.” Everybody in the group was fully conscious of the vital importance of the words which had just been spoken. Webb, who was a famous poker-player, had never controlled his face and tone better. No one spoke for a moment, but all eyes were fixed expectantly on Bradley. “Huh,” he answered, half under his breath, “I reckon you would!” He tossed his shaggy, iron-gray head and smiled artificially. His face was pale, and his eyes shone with suppressed excitement. It was a better offer than he had expected; in fact, he had not realized before that his stock was convertible into quite so much ready money, and it was hard for him, simple and honest as he was, to keep from showing surprise. “Harry Webb,” he went on, evasively, “do you have any idee what I cleared last year, not countin’ bad debts an’ expenses? I’m over three thousand ahead, an’ prospects fer trade never was better. My books will show you that I am a-givin’ it to you straight.”