And Peter knew, also, that it was time to set his feet very firmly upon his own floor and to unchain that bulldog credited to the possession of every Briton by birth, whether he be in his native land or the land of his adoption. Luckily, Peter had his fair share of canine inclinations in fine working order because of some years of disuse. He knew perfectly well that Martin Moreland was not interested in his new signs and his attractive display of food. He knew that he had entered his place of business in order to search his aisles with keen eyes and see for himself if Jason were working there. Peter’s eyes were sharply watching Martin Moreland’s face as Jason came down inside the counter on his way to the scales bearing a couple of dripping mackerel upon a sheet of wrapping paper. Peter’s heart turned over in his body and then stood still when Jason, looking up from the scale of weights, encountered the glaring eyes of the banker fixed upon him, and said smoothly and evenly: “Good morning, Mr. Moreland. I’ll take your order as soon as I finish with these ladies.” Now Peter knew that Martin Moreland was not accustomed to waiting till ladies had been served, especially if the “ladies” carried market baskets on their arms and wore white aprons and cheap shawls across their shoulders. To use Peter’s own description of the situation to his wife that night, he “was havin’ a bully time.—Had to turn away for a minute to keep from snortin’ right in Moreland’s face.” The banker followed Peter down the aisle and jostled him roughly with his elbow as he said to him: “Now you look here, Peter Potter. Answer me this. Who’s running this town?” A very devil of perversity possessed Peter, for he answered: “Well, if you really think you are, your head looks like you’re makin’ a bally mess of it.” It had been evident to the employees of the bank that the attempted hold-up that Martin Moreland reported had upset his temper to quite as great extent as it had disfigured his head and his influential right hand. There was nothing soothing to the ragged Moreland nerves in Peter’s retort. “I came in here,” said Martin Moreland, “to give you just fifteen minutes to get that scum of the brothel out of your store.” Peter Potter cocked his head on one side and looked at Martin Moreland.