Young Mr. Boyce did not wince or change color under the meditative gaze with which Reuben regarded him upon hearing this; but he was conscious of discomfort, and he said to himself that his companion’s way of staring like an introspective ox at people was unpleasant. “That would be a tremendous start for you,” remarked Reuben at last. “I hope you won’t be disappointed in it.” “It seems a tolerably safe prospect,” answered Horace, lightly. “You say that you’re overworked.” “Not quite that, but I don’t get as much time as I should like for outside matters. I want to go on the school board here, for example--I see ever so many features of the system which seem to me to be flaws, and which I should like to help remedy--but I can’t spare the time. And then there is the condition of the poor people in the quarter grown up around the iron-works and the factories, and the lack of a good library, and the saloon question, and the way in which the young men and boys of the village spend their evenings, and so on. These are the things I am really interested in; and instead of them I have to devote all my energies to deeds and mortgages and specifications for trestle-works. That’s what I meant.” “Why don’t you take in a partner? That would relieve you of a good deal of the routine.” “Do you know, I’ve thought of that more than once lately. I daresay that if the right sort of a young man had been at hand, the idea would have attracted me long ago. But, to tell the truth, there isn’t anybody in Thessaly who meets precisely my idea of a partner--whom I quite feel like taking into my office family, so to speak.” “Perhaps I may want to talk with you again on this point,” said Horace. To this Reuben made no reply, and the two walked on for a few moments in silence. They were approaching a big, ungainly, shabby-looking structure, which presented a receding roof, a row of windows with small, old-fashioned panes of glass, and a broad, rickety veranda sprawling the whole width of its front, to the highway on their left. This had once been a rural wayside tavern, but now, by the encircling growth of the village, it had taken on a hybrid character, and managed to combine in a very complete way the coarse demerits of a town saloon with the evil license of a suburban dive. Its location rendered it independent of most of the restrictions which the village authorities were able to enforce in Thessaly itself, and this freedom from restraint attracted the dissipated imagination of town and country alike. It was Dave Rantell’s place, and being known far and wide as the most objectionable resort in Dearborn County, was in reality much worse than its reputation.