ilding. The upstairs he could rent, and the
whole ground-floor of both buildings would be Higginbotham's Cash Store.
His eyes glistened when he spoke of the new sign that would stretch clear
across both buildings.

Martin forgot to listen. The refrain of "Work performed," in his own
brain, was drowning the other's clatter. The refrain maddened him, and
he tried to escape from it.

"How much did you say it would cost?" he asked suddenly.

His brother-in-law paused in the middle of an expatiation on the business
opportunities of the neighborhood. He hadn't said how much it would
cost. But he knew. He had figured it out a score of times.

"At the way lumber is now," he said, "four thousand could do it."

"Including the sign?"

"I didn't count on that. It'd just have to come, onc't the buildin' was
there."

"And the ground?"

"Three thousand more."

He leaned forward, licking his lips, nervously spreading and closing his
fingers, while he watched Martin write a check. When it was passed over
to him, he glanced at the amount-seven thousand dollars.

"I--I can't afford to pay more than six per cent," he said huskily.

Martin wanted to laugh, but, instead, demanded:-

"How much would that be?"

"Lemme see. Six per cent--six times seven--four hundred an' twenty."

"That would be thirty-five dollars a month, wouldn't it?"

Higginbotham nodded.

"Then, if you've no objection, well arrange it this way." Martin glanced
at Gertrude. "You can have the principal to keep for yourself, if you'll
use the thirty-five dollars a month for cooking and washing and
scrubbing. The seven thousand is yours if you'll guarantee that Gertrude
does no more drudgery. Is it a go?"

Mr. Higginbotham swallowed hard. That his wife should do no more
housework was an affront to his thrifty soul. The magnificent present
was the coating of a pill, a bitter pill. That his wife should not work!
It gagged him.

"All right, then," Martin said. "I'll pay the thirty-five a month, and--"

He reached across the table for the check. But Bernard Higginbotham got
his hand on it first, crying:

"I accept! I accept!"

When Martin got on the electric car, he was very sick and tired. He
looked up at the assertive sign.

"The swine," he groaned. "The swine, the swine."

When Mackintosh's Magazine published "The Palmist," featuring it with
decorations by Berthier and with two pictures by Wenn, Hermann von
Schmidt forgot that