For the tide of speculation was still rising in the country, and even in Aldersbury had reached many a back-parlor where the old stocking or the money-box was scarcely out of date. Thousands sold their Three per cents., and the proceeds had to go somewhere, and other proceeds, for behind all there was real prosperity. Men’s money poured first into a higher and then into a lower grade of security and raised each in turn, so that fortunes were made with astonishing speed. The banks gave extended credit; everything rose. Many who had bought in fear found that they had cleared a profit before they had had time to tremble. They sold, and still there were others to take their place. It seemed as if all had only to buy and to sell and to grow rich. Only the very cautious stood aside, and one by one even these slid tempted into the stream. The more venturesome hazarded their money afar, buying shares in steamship companies in the West Indies, in diamond mines in Brazil, or in cattle companies in Mexico. The more prudent preferred undertakings which they could see and which their limited horizon could compass, and to these such a local scheme as the Valleys Railroad held out a tempting bait. They knew nothing about a railroad, but they knew that steam had been applied to ocean travel, and they knew Aldersbury and the woollen district. Here was something the growth and progress of which they could watch, and which once begun could not vanish in a night. Then the silence of those within and the rumors spread without added to its attractions. Each man felt that his neighbor was stealing a march upon him, and that if he were not quick he would not get in on equal terms. One of Ovington’s waylayers wished to know if the limit at which he had been advised to sell his stock was likely to be reached. “I sold on Saturday,” the banker answered, “two pounds above your limit, Davies. The money will be in the bank in a week.” He spoke with Napoleonic curtness, and rode on, leaving the man, amazed and jubilant, to calculate his gains. The next wanted advice. He had a hundred in hand if Mr. Ovington would not think it too small. “Call to-morrow—no, Thursday,” Ovington said, hardly looking at him. “I’ll see you then.” The third ran bare-headed out of a shop. He was a man of more weight, Purslow the big draper on Bride Hill, who had been twice Mayor of Aldersbury; a tradesman, bald and sleek, whom fortune had raised so rapidly that old subservience was continually at odds with new importance. “Just a word, Mr. Ovington,” he stuttered, “a word, sir, by your leave? I’m a good customer.” He had not laid aside his black apron but merely twisted it round his waist, a sure sign, in these days of his greatness, that he was flustered. The banker nodded. “None better, Purslow,” he answered. “What is it?” “What I says, then—excuse me—is, if Grounds, why not me? Why not me, sir?” “I don’t quite——” “If he’s to be on the Board, he and his mash-tubs——”