in Jethro had asked Mr. Bangs: "What is Raish up to now?"

And Mr. Pulcifer firmly refused to answer that question. Or, to be
more exact, he always answered it, but the answers were not considered
convincing. Some pretended to be satisfied with his offhand declaration
that he "had a little chunk of the stock and just presumed likely I
might as well have a little more. Ain't nothin' to make a fuss about,
anyhow." A few pretended to accept this explanation as bona fide, but
the remainder, the majority, received it with open incredulity.

The oddest part of it all was the fact that the great Horatio appeared
to dislike the prominent position which his activities held in the
community mind. Ordinarily prominence had been the delight of his soul.
In every political campaign, wherever the limelight shone brightest
there had strutted Mr. Pulcifer, cigar in mouth, hat over one eye,
serene self-satisfaction in the possession of mysterious knowledge
radiating from his person. He loved that sort of thing; to be the
possessor of "inside information," however slight, or even to be
popularly supposed to possess it, had hitherto been the meat upon which
this, Wellmouth's, Caesar, fed and grew great.

But Raish was not enjoying this particular meal. And his attitude
was not pretense, either; it was obvious that the more East Wellmouth
discussed his buying the Development stock the less he liked it. When
his fellow townsmen questioned him he grew peevish.

"Oh, forget it!" he exclaimed to one of the unfortunate who came seeking
information. "You make me tired, Jim Fletcher, you and Ras Beebe and the
whole gang. By cripes, a feller can't as much as take a five cent cigar
out of his pocket without all hands tryin' to make a--a molehill out of
it. Forget it, I tell you!"

Mr. Fletcher was a simple soul, decidedly not one of East Wellmouth's
intellectual aristocracy, but he was persistent.

"Aw, hold on, Raish," he expostulated, "I never said a word about your
takin' a five cent cigar out of your pocket.... Er--er--you ain't taken
one out, have you?"

"No, and I ain't goin' to--not now."

"All right--all right. _I_ never asked you. All I said was--"

"I know what you said."

"Why, no, you don't neither. You're all mixed up. Nobody's said anything
about cigars, or makin'--er--er--What was it you said they made?"

"Oh, nothin', nothin'. A molehill is what I said."

"What kind of a hill?"

"A molehill. Didn't you ever hear of a