“But Barton may not be there always,” laughed the superintendent, although the suggestion of the manager’s omnipotence did not please him. Everybody praised Frank Barton’s business acumen. Mayberry, being Barton’s close friend, knew just how weak the fellow really was! This was Mayberry’s thought; but he made no display of this feeling, saying: “It really is business, Colonel. I am sorry not to be able to join you and the other gentlemen. But we really all have to work up there at the factory. Barton may get the bulk of the credit. You know how it is when a fellow once gets into the limelight.” “Yes,” chuckled Fuller. “But they tell me a lime never gets into the limelight. Don’t tell me Frank Barton is to be counted among the citrus fruit.” “Never!” responded Mayberry. “But, then, there are others working for the Hapwood-Diller Company too who are not lemons. Good-night.” He went down the steps whistling cheerfully and Mr. Fuller looked quizzically after him. “Bright young fellow, just the same,” murmured the man. “Perhaps may be made more useful, even, than Barton. But I fear neither Helen nor the wife would stand for _him_ as a dinner guest; whereas, Barton----” These cryptic observations were unheard by Mayberry of course. And the frown on his brow belied his cheerful whistle and airy remarks to Mr. Fuller. He got into his car, started it, and drove away from the hotel with the secret feeling that he would enjoy running over a dog. He kept on through the old part of Mailsburg and down past the docks and over the Stone Bridge. The creek was a wide, oilily flowing stream--save in the time of the spring freshets. He took the Creek Road and rolled easily out of town and along past the farms and wooded strips which intervened between Mailsburg and Norville. He drove slowly and looked at the illuminated dial of the clock before him frequently. It was plain that he had a rendezvous here in the open. Some one has said: “If you have a secret to tell, select the middle of a ten-acre lot.” Mayberry’s appointment suggested secrecy, for he finally stopped near the bank of the creek with an open, sloping field on the other hand, and no cover but a rock beside the road. There was shadow enough about the rock, however, to protect the figure of a man on the landward side. But the scent of his tobacco permeated the air. “Hello, Blaisdell?” Jim Mayberry said quietly and questioningly, having brought his car to a stop just opposite this rock. “Welcome, dear boy,” was the prompt reply. The waiting man stretched his long limbs and came out of the shadow, still puffing his pipe, to rest a foot upon the step of the car. Mayberry lit a cigarette and pinched out the glowing end of the match before dropping it. “What’s the news?” asked Blaisdell. “Kind of bad--for you and me,” Mayberry admitted. “What do you mean? Doesn’t that order go through?”