The dream of a career in his native village had brought him delight only so long as Kate Minster was its central figure. That vision now seemed so clumsy and foolish that he laughed at it. He realized that he had never liked the people here about him. Even the Minsters had been provincial, only a gilded variation upon the rustic character of the section. Nothing but the over-sanguine folly of youth could ever have prompted him to think that he wanted to be mayor of Thessaly, or that it would be good to link his fortunes with the dull, under-bred place. Oh, no! he would take his money and go. The two men for whom he had been waiting broke abruptly in upon his revery by entering the room. They came in without even a show of knocking on the door, and Horace frowned a little at their rudeness. Stout Judge Wendover panted heavily with the exertion of ascending the stairs, and it seemed to have put him out of temper as well as breath. He threw off his overcoat with an impatient jerk, took a chair, and gruffly grunted “How-de-do!” in the direction of his host, without taking the trouble to even nod a salutation. Tenney also seated himself, but he did not remove his overcoat. Even in the coldest seasons he seemed to wear the same light, autumnal clothes, creaseless and gray, and mouselike in effect. The two men looked silently at Horace, and he felt that they disapproved his velveteen coat. “Well?” he asked, at last, leaning back in his chair and trying to equal them in indifference. “What is new in New York, Judge?” “Never mind New York! Thessaly is more in our line just now,” said Wendover, sternly. The young man simulated a slight yawn. “You’re welcome to my share of the town, I’m sure,” he said; “I’m not very enthusiastic about it myself.” “How much has Reuben Tracy got to work on? How much have you blabbed about our business to him?” asked the New Yorker. “I neither know nor care anything about Mr. Tracy,” said Horace, coldly. “As for what you elegantly describe as my ‘blabbing’ to him, I daresay you understand what it means. I don’t.” “It means that you have made a fool of us; got us into trouble; perhaps ruined the whole business, by your God A’mighty stupidity! That’s what it means!” said Wendover, with his little blue-bead eyes snapping angrily in the lamplight. “I hope it won’t strike you as irrelevant if I suggest that this is my room,” drawled Horace, “and that I have a distinct preference for civil conversation in it. If you have any criticisms to offer upon my conduct, as you seem to think that you have, I must beg that you couch them in the language which gentlemen--” “Gentlemen be damned!” broke in the Judge, sharply. “We’ve had too much ‘gentleman’ in this whole business! Answer me a plain question. What does Tracy mean by his applications?” “I haven’t the remotest idea what you are talking about. I’ve already told you that I know nothing of Mr. Tracy or his doings.”