The three glanced at him with a sudden and genuine interest. The man was so massive; his hair so black, and, at the age of fifty, still unstreaked with gray. His face was large and strong, with a certain Jovian quality in cheek, ear, and chin. He suggested latent physical powers that, if aroused, would be tremendous. "Find it pretty quiet?" went on Stoughton. "Yes, but that's what I like." "Then you don't entirely approve of our plans up at the rapids? At least, so Mr. Clark tells me." Manson's glance lifted and went straight into Clark's gray eyes. "No, I don't believe in them, if," he added, "I can say so without offense." Riggs stripped off his heavy fur coat, and turned his back to the stove. "Just why, may I ask?" "Well, I have a feeling you'll spoil St. Marys. It's just right as it is. We haven't much excitement and I reckon we don't want it. We're comfortable, so why can't you let us alone? I like the life as it is." "You'll live faster after we get going," chuckled Wimperley. "Perhaps, but we won't live so long. I've had a lot of men through my hands who tried to live faster, and it didn't agree with them--not that I'm meaning--" The rest was lost in a riot of laughter, out of which Wimperley's voice became audible. "If things go as we propose and expect, the people of St. Marys will profit very considerably,--there will be remarkable opportunities." "Meaning that,--" a new light flickered in Manson's black eyes for a fraction of a second and disappeared. "Meaning that during the transformation of a village into a city a number of interesting changes take place." "Maybe, but such things can't affect me very much." "Well, possibly not, but I've an idea they will. I'm afraid we can't let St. Marys alone, Mr. Manson, and a little later on you'll understand why. This land, for instance, between us and the river, is vacant." Manson's eye slowly traversed the two hundred yard width of the open field that lay just south of the road. It was perhaps half way between the rapids and the center of the village. "Yes, I think Worden owns it, but I know that no one wants it." "Ah!" said Stoughton with a little laugh; "and now we must be getting on. Good-by, and thank you for saving our lives, even if you have had a crack at our project." There was a sound of laughing voices on the porch and a jangle of sleigh bells that dwindled toward the village, but Manson did not seem to hear them. He stood blocking up the window, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, staring at the vacant lot across the street.