The building mover looked puzzled. “To the Boulevard?” he said. “Why, I didn't know there was a vacant lot on the Boulevard, Mr. Williams.” “There isn't now, but there will be soon. I have got hold of the hundred feet left from the old Seabury estate.” Mr. Phinney drew a long breath. “Why!” he stammered, “that's where Olive Edwards--her that was Olive Seabury--lives, ain't it?” “Yes,” was the rather impatient answer. “She has been living there. But the place was mortgaged up to the handle and--ahem--the mortgage is mine now.” For an instant Simeon did not reply. He was gazing, not up the Boulevard in the direction of the “Seabury place” but across the slope of the hill toward the home of Captain Sol Berry, the depot master. There was a troubled look on his face. “Well?” inquired Williams briskly, “when can you give me the figures? They must be low, mind. No country skin games, you understand.” “Hey?” Phinney came out of his momentary trance. “Yes, yes, Mr. Williams. They'll be low enough. Times is kind of dull now and I'd like a movin' job first-rate. I'll give 'em to you to-morrer. But--but Olive'll have to move, won't she? And where's she goin'?” “She'll have to move, sure. And the eyesore on that lot now will come down.” The “eyesore” was the four room building, combined dwelling and shop of Mrs. Olive Edwards, widow of “Bill Edwards,” once a promising young man, later town drunkard and ne'er-do-well, dead these five years, luckily for himself and luckier--in a way--for the wife who had stuck by him while he wasted her inheritance in a losing battle with John Barleycorn. At his death the fine old Seabury place had dwindled to a lone hundred feet of land, the little house, and a mortgage on both. Olive had opened a “notion store” in her front parlor and had fought on, proudly refusing aid and trying to earn a living. She had failed. Again Phinney stared thoughtfully at the distant house of Captain Sol. “But Olive,” he said, slowly. “She ain't got no folks, has she? What'll become of her? Where'll she move to?” “That,” said Mr. Williams, with a wave of a fat hand, “is not my business. I am sorry for her, if she's hard up. But I can't be responsible if men will drink up their wives' money. Look out for number one; that's business. I sha'n't be unreasonable with her. She can stay where she is until the new house I've bought is moved to that lot. Then she must clear out. I've told her that. She knows all about it. Well, good-by, Phinney. I shall expect your bid to-morrow. And, mind, don't try to get the best of me, because you can't do it.” He turned and strutted back up the Boulevard. Sim Phinney, pondering deeply and very grave, continued on his way, down Cross Street to Main--naming the village roads was another of the Williams' “improvements”--and along that to the crossing, East Harniss's business and social center at train times.