The men of Egypt goggled at him. “Aye! And start off with it?” queried the Prophet. “Good riddance!” But Mr. Britt was not troubling himself about the mouthings of Elias. “I shall put a crew on it to-morrow. A city contractor will arrive here this afternoon with equipment and men. But he can also use all the local men who want to work. All who will pitch in can hire with him at the regular scale of wages. As soon as the site is cleared I shall start work on a new house. The plans are drawn. I have them here.” He snapped the rubber bands off a roll which he carried under his arm. He exhibited a watercolor facade elevation, stretching his arms wide and holding the paper in front of his face. The men came crowding around. They saw the drawing of a pretentious structure with towers and porticoes. Britt, holding the architect's broad sheet so that his features were hidden, explained the details of his project in regard to rooms and grounds. There was a hateful expression on the hidden face; it was the face of a man who hoped he was stirring jealous envy in those whom he wished to punish. “It will be a mansion to the queen's taste, when you get it done,” observed one man; he took advantage of the fact that Britt could not see him and winked at a neighbor. But if the man hoped to get a rise out of the builder in regard to a possible queen, he was disappointed. Another citizen was more venturesome: “I'm taking it for granted that you don't intend to keep old-bach hall in a house like that, Tasper!” Britt took down the shield. He displayed a countenance of bland satisfaction. “I don't think I'll be allowed to do it,” he retorted, answering jest with jest. “You know what women are when they see a good-looking house needing a mistress.” He rolled the paper up carefully. “And now, talking of something sensible, I hope you're going to turn out in good numbers when that contractor begins to hire. And pass the word!” Nobody showed much enthusiasm. One man with a querulous mouth suggested: “It will seem like helping waste money, tearing down a stand of buildings that ain't in any ways due to be scrapped; I ain't sure but what it will seem like a worse waste of money, building a palace in a town like this. Don't you expect to be taxed like Sancho?” “Until we get some kind of legislation or court action to make our town acts legal, the taxation question isn't worrying me much,” said Britt, grimly. “I'll take my chances along with the rest of you on getting an act allowing us to compound with creditors.” “Probably can be arranged,” said a man with the malice against the usurer that prevailed in the oppressed town. “We're sending a good man to the next legislature.” But Britt, in that new mood of his, was refusing to be baited. He began to look about. “Where is that person who calls himself a Prophet?”