As in other similar emporiums devoted to the display and sale of such commodities as were in general demand “the store cat” might be seen guarding inconspicuous rat-holes, or curled up in peaceful slumber in the cracker barrel, or in close proximity to the whity-brown loaves of bread destined for private consumption and handled with easy familiarity and a total lack of ceremonial cleanliness by the driver of the baker’s cart, the Hewetts, father and son, and by such tentative customers as elected to test the freshness of the product with doubtful thumb and finger. It was at Hewett’s, as might have been expected, that the singular event of the auction at the Preston farm had been discussed in all its different aspects. The amount of the mortgage held by Stephen Jarvis, the various expedients resorted to by the daughter of Donald Preston, and the events leading up to her desperate and successful coup had all been reviewed circumstantially and in order. The continued presence of David Whitcomb in the community furnished a welcome variation to the subject; and inasmuch as David was found not averse to talking of himself, there was little mystery about his return to Barford and its object. Opinions as to the personal appearance, probable resources, and moral character of the ex-schoolmaster were found to be as varied as the new and somewhat showy raiment in which he appeared from day to day. “Thinks he’s too good to walk now ’t he’s got them shiny pointed shoes,” observed Hank Smith, whose footgear was of the square-toed variety, presumably inherited from a deceased relative. “I seen him drivin’ a rig out t’ Preston’s to-day.” “Yas,” corroborated the local liveryman. “He’s took it b’ the week. Says he’s thinkin’ of buyin’ a good horse.” “Huh! you don’t say,” drawled a farmer from the hills, who had dropped in for his week’s supply of groceries and his mail. “I s’pose he done pretty well out west? Mebbe I c’d sell him that bay mare o’ mine.” “He spen’s lots of money; I don’t know how much he’s got,” was the unchallenged opinion put forth by another. There followed a general oscillation of heads about the empty stove, a round-bellied affair, capable of fierce white heats in the winter time, but abandoned to rust in summer and habitually diffusing a clammy scent of chimney soot and damp ashes. “I guess the’ don’t anybody know ’s t’ that; I heard him speak o’ minin’ prop’ties kind o’ careless like. He sure does carry a big wad.” “The table board over t’ the Eagle’s called pretty fair; but ’tain’t good enough fer Whitcomb. He pays extry fer dinner at night.” “Jus’ so; an’ Sutton’s cook left after he’d been thar a couple o’ weeks. She said she wa’n’t a-goin’ t’ put up with Whitcomb.”