“It _is_ our bus’ness. And it’s more yours than it is mine. You’re the agent of this town. You’re the man the people trust to see that Palermo gets what’s her just dues. You know she is bein’ robbed. Now, Phin, you either go to work and find out why old Coll Willard is borrowin’ money secretly on town’s notes, and you put it before the people in the right and proper way as you know how to do, or, by mighty, I’ll do it my way and then you’ll see how you stand before the people--you that’s hidin’ a note that you know is crooked.” Hiram stopped before his brother and breathed hard in his passion. And now the Squire’s repression began to give way. The obstinacy of this stormy petrel of the Look family was maddening. But, fortunately for both, the unhappy quarrel was interrupted. For some moments there had been approaching behind the alders at the turn of the highway a queer medley of sound--squeaking of whiffle-tree, yawling of dry axle and over all a peculiar moaning. Now a vehicle like a van came in sight. The brothers stood and watched it as it approached them. Avery came hobbling with brush in hand and gaped his surprise. “Well, P’lermo’s took this time, sartin sure,” he gasped. ’Twas almost a little house on wheels. An elbow of stove funnel stuck out of one side. An old chaise-top was fastened by strings and wire over a seat in front. Dust and mud covered everything with striated coatings, a mask eloquent of wanderings over many soils. A bony horse, knee-sprung and wheezy, dragged the van at the gait of a caterpillar. Under the chaise-top was a hunched-up elderly man, gaunt but huge of frame, his knees almost at his chin. Long, grizzled hair fluffed over his shoulders, and little puffs of white whiskers stood out from his tanned cheeks. A fuzzy beaver hat barely covered the bald spot on his head. The reins were looped around his neck. Between his hands, huge as hams, moaned and sucked and snuffled and droned a much-patched accordion. To its accompaniment the man sang words that he fitted to the tune of “Old Dog Tray,” trolling lustily at the end of each verse, “An honest friend is old hoss Joe.” “Whoa, there! Whup!” screamed Hiram’s parrot, swinging by one foot. “Ain’t you kind of workin’ a friend to the limit, and a little plus?” inquired Hiram, sarcastically. The old horse, at the parrot’s command, had stopped before the gate, legs straddled, head down, the dust rising in little puffs as he breathed. “Joachim loves music,” said the stranger, with a mild smile. “He’ll travel all day if I’ll only play and sing to him.” “Love of music will be the death of Joachim, then,” commented Hiram, briefly. “Is there a hostelry near by?” asked the other, lifting his tall beaver hat politely. In the atmosphere of rough-and-ready Palermo the little action seemed an exaggeration. With satirical courtesy Hiram lifted his hat--and at the psychological moment the only “plug” hats in the whole town of Palermo saluted each other.