not
know this town, but he knew towns, and his feet did not falter.
Presently he saw a sign over a door: "Frank E. Cooly, Attorney-at-Law
and Notary Public." A young man was Mr. Cooly, and awaiting business.

"Get your hat, son," said Mr. Bloom, in his breezy way, "and a blank
deed, and come along. It's a job for you."

"Now," he continued, when Mr. Cooly had responded with alacrity, "is
there a bookstore in town?"

"One," said the lawyer. "Henry Williams's."

"Get there," said Mr. Bloom. "We're going to buy it."

Henry Williams was behind his counter. His store was a small one,
containing a mixture of books, stationery, and fancy rubbish. Adjoining
it was Henry's home--a decent cottage, vine-embowered and cosy. Henry
was lank and soporific, and not inclined to rush his business.

"I want to buy your house and store," said Mr. Bloom. "I haven't got
time to dicker--name your price."

"It's worth eight hundred," said Henry, too much dazed to ask more than
its value.

"Shut that door," said Mr. Bloom to the lawyer. Then he tore off his
coat and vest, and began to unbutton his shirt.

"Wanter fight about it, do yer?" said Henry Williams, jumping up and
cracking his heels together twice. "All right, hunky--sail in and cut
yer capers."

"Keep your clothes on," said Mr. Bloom. "I'm only going down to the
bank."

He drew eight one-hundred-dollar bills from his money belt and planked
them down on the counter. Mr. Cooly showed signs of future promise,
for he already had the deed spread out, and was reaching across the
counter for the ink bottle. Never before or since was such quick
action had in Cold Branch.

"Your name, please?" asked the lawyer.

"Make it out to Peyton Blaylock," said Mr. Bloom. "God knows how to
spell it."

Within thirty minutes Henry Williams was out of business, and Mr. Bloom
stood on the brick sidewalk with Mr. Cooly, who held in his hand the
signed and attested deed.

"You'll find the party at the Pinetop Inn," said J. Pinkney Bloom. "Get
it recorded, and take it down and give it to him. He'll ask you a
hell's mint of questions; so here's ten dollars for the trouble you'll
have in not being able to answer 'em. Never run much to poetry, did
you, young man?"

"Well," said the really talented Cooly, who even yet retained his right
mind, "now and then."

"Dig into it," said Mr. Bloom, "it'll pay you. Never heard a poem,
now, that run something like this, did you?--