“I am Reuben Stone. I run my father’s mill over at Torrent Bend River.” “Indeed! Rather young to run a mill alone.” “I have a man to help me. I was brought up about the place.” “I see. My name is William Markham. I am in the dry-goods trade in New York. This is my wife and my son Willie, and this is Mr. Brown, an intimate friend.” I acknowledged the various introductions as best I could. Every one was wet, and scarcely presentable; but in that particular we were all on a level, and I did not feel abashed. We were now approaching the Bayport shore, and Mr. Markham asked me to stop at the hotel’s private wharf, which I did. “Will you come up to the hotel with us?” he asked. “I’m not in condition,” I laughed. “I had better be about my business.” “No, no; I want you to stay here,” he returned quickly. “I want to see you just as soon as I can change my clothes.” “Suppose I come back in half an hour?” “That will suit me very well.” After the party had landed I skirted the shore until I came to the business portion of the town. Here I tied up, and made my way at once to Mr. Carnet’s flour and feed store. “Well, Rube, got that middlings for me?” he exclaimed as I entered. “Yes, sir; sixteen bags.” “All right. Just pile them up in the shed on the wharf. I’ll go down with you. How much?” “I would rather you would see them before I set a price,” I returned. “I am afraid some of the bags are pretty wet.” “I don’t want wet bags. How did it happen?” I related what had occurred. By the time I had finished we had reached the wharf. “My! my!” exclaimed the flour-dealer. “Mr. Markham! I know him. He is one of the richest men at the Grand. So he said you could have the boat. She is worth a couple of hundred dollars.” “Yes, and a hundred added. He is more than generous.” “He can afford it, I suppose.” “Here are the bags,” I went on. “Ten of them are dry.” “Those I’ll give you regular price for,――dollar and a half.” Mr. Carnet examined the others. “Suppose we make the six a dollar each?” “Can’t you make it a dollar and a quarter?” “No; a dollar is all they are worth to me.” “Very well. When do you want more?” “Any time next week,” replied the flour-merchant, handing over the twenty-one dollars that were due me. “All right. I’ll be over Tuesday. Want anything else?” “Not for the present. Trade is rather slow.” Putting the money in my pocket-book, I entered my sloop again, and steered for the hotel wharf. I found Mr. Markham already awaiting me. “Just tie up here and come with me,” he said. I did so, and we walked along the principal street of Bayport, which at this hour of the day was nearly deserted. “I am going to the bank on business,” he went on with a twinkle in his eye. “This is my last day here, and I want to draw out the deposit I made for convenience’s sake when I came.” I did not see what this had to do with me, but said nothing.