“What do they hear here in town from Bradish?” he inquired. There was a suppressed note of meaning in his voice that the little crowd did not catch. The men about the stove looked at each other. “Nothin’,” at last blurted Uncle Buck. “What bus’ness is he a-follerin’ of in New York?” asked Seekins. “As near’s I’ve ever come to it,” said Buck, “him and the Jedge is in some kind of financierin’ together and King’s handlin’ that end of it. But the Jedge don’t put his bus’ness into the _Seaside Oracle_ and King ain’t the kind that writes letters to be read out loud here in Ase’s store,” he added grimly. “I s’pose his mother hears reg’lar and the Jedge and Sylvene, but the Bradishes and the Willards never messed in very thick with their neighbours. Sum and substance is, we don’t know not the first dum thing about King Bradish nor his bus’ness, nor why he closed up bus’ness here in the hurry that he did and got out of the place. And I donno as I care. I never had no use for the skunk, anyway.” He pared a corner from a black plug of tobacco, stuck it into his cheek and relapsed into dignified silence. The man on the keg braided at his rope-end. “I shouldn’t want him to do no gre’t amount of financierin’ for me,” he said at last. “Bradish, I mean.” “I donno ’bout that,” Amazeen said. “He was allus pretty sharp on a dicker ’round here.” “I say I shouldn’t want him to do my financierin’ for me,” persisted Mate Seekins. The group waited for him to go on, but he kept at his braiding. “Well, you’ve gone that fur. Keep on,” commanded Uncle Buck. “I ain’t no hand to peddle gossip,” said Seekins. “Who said ye was?” Lysimachus’s tone was indignant. “And there ain’t no. call for you to hint that we’re gossips here. If you ain’t man enough to dast to say what you know, then keep still and much good may it do you.” But the old man’s eyes gleamed with curiosity. “Half truths are wusser’n whole lies,” he muttered. “I ain’t no hand to talk and tell,” went on Seekins, “but when I say I don’t want him to financier for me I mean to say that I don’t want any man handlin’ my money that keeps drunk as a fiddler’s hoorah.” The music from across the street bellowed in louder blast, for the store door opened with a bang and Hiram Look came stamping in. “Do me up a slab of cheese and plenty of crackers, Colonel Brickett,” he called. “Wider’n that,” he snapped as Brickett set his knife on the cheese. “Look’s Cornet Brass Band ain’t eatin’ no half rations so long as old Hime himself is on hand to buy for ’em.” He beamed on the circle of faces about the stove, for the inspiration of his favourite tunes made him genial. “How does that sound to you, old turkles?” he cried, with a backward jab of his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Hobbs’s hall. “It’s sort of wakin’ up Palermo, hey?”