The citizen shrugged his shoulders and spread his palms in a gesture disclaiming all responsibility. Mr. Gooch shut off his engine and settled back in the seat, the personification of grim and dogged patience. Fifteen minutes passed. Passers-by, sensing something unusual, found an excuse for loitering in front of nearby showwindows; several persons entered Silas Link’s undertaking parlors next door and seemed deeply interested in the rubber plants that adorned the windows; Marmaduke Smith, the messenger-boy, with two telegrams in his book, pedaled his bicycle up to the curb and, anchoring it with one thin and spidery leg, sagged limply upon the handlebar and waited for something to happen. Mr. Link came out of his office, and after taking one look at the hard-faced old man in the automobile, hurried to the rear of his establishment. A few seconds later he returned, accompanied by Joseph Sikes. They took up a position in the doorway and, ignoring Mr. Gooch, gazed disinterestedly down the street in the opposite direction. At last Oliver October appeared. He glanced at his watch as he crossed the sidewalk. “Hello, Uncle Horace,” was his greeting. “Sorry to have kept you waiting. And I’m in a bit of a hurry, too. Some friends coming down on Number Seventeen. Mr. and Mrs. Sage—you remember them, no doubt. And their daughter. The train’s due at 4:10—and it’s three minutes of four now. Anything in particular you wanted to see me about?” “Yes, there is,” said Mr. Gooch harshly. “I came over here to demand an apology from you, young man—a public apology, printed over your signature in the newspapers.” “What’s the joke, Uncle Horace?” asked Oliver calmly. “Joke? There’s no joke about it. You know what I mean. I demand an apology for what you said in the letter you wrote in reply to mine of the twenty-seventh inst.” “Do you expect me to print my letter in the newspapers together with the apology?” “That isn’t necessary, young man.” “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Oliver, unruffled. “I’ll agree to publish your letter to me and my reply, and I’ll follow them up with an apology for mine if you’ll apologize to me for yours. That’s fair, isn’t it?” “Don’t beat about the bush,” snapped Mr. Gooch. “Don’t get fresh, young man. I’m not here to bandy words with you. I wrote you a very plain and dignified letter in which I told you what I thought of the underhanded way you acted in regard to those dear old ladies, Mrs. Bannester and her sister. You know as well as I do that it was my intention to restore their property to them, absolutely tax free and without a single claim against it. You simply sneaked in and got ahead of me, and now you are giving people to understand that I meant to foreclose on ’em and turn them out of house and home. You—” “Yes, yes,” interrupted Oliver, looking at his watch again, “I know that’s what you said in your letter—that and a lot of other things, Uncle Horace.”