g of each small pailful into the large
pail.

"I don't know exactly how I'll get this boxed for shipping," hinted
Wallingford, as Bob carried the pail laboriously back to the buggy.

"Right down at the mill," invited Mr. Bubble with great cordiality.
"I'll have my people look after it for you."

"That's very kind of you," replied Wallingford. "I'll give you the
address," and upon the back of one of his own cards he wrote: Sig.
Vittoreo Matteo, 710 Marabon Building, Boston, Mass., U. S. A., care
Horace G. Daw.

That night he wrote a careful letter of explanation to Horace G. Daw.

Two weeks to wait. Oh, well, Wallingford could amuse himself by
working up a local reputation. It was while he was considering this,
upon the following day, that a farmer with three teeth drove up in a
dilapidated spring-wagon drawn by a pair of beautiful bay horses, and
stopped in front of Jim Ranger's livery and sales stable to talk hay.
Wallingford, sitting in front of the hotel in lazy meditation, walked
over and examined the team with a critical eye. They were an exquisite
match, perfect in every limb, with manes and tails and coats of that
peculiar silken sheen belonging to perfect health and perfect care.

"Very nice team you have," observed Wallingford.

"Finest match team anywhere," agreed Abner Follis, plucking at his
gray goatee and mouthing a straw, "an' I make a business o' raisin'
thoroughbreds. Cousins, they are, an' without a blemish on 'em. An'
trot--you'd ought to see that team trot."

"What'll you take for them?" asked Wallingford.

The response of Abner Follis was quick and to the point. He kept a
careful appraisement upon all his live stock.

"Seven hundred and fifty," said he, naming a price that allowed ample
leeway for dickering.

It was almost a disappointment to him that Wallingford produced his
wallet, counted over the exact amount that had been asked, and said
briefly:

"Unhitch them."

"Well!" said Abner, slowly taking the money and throwing away his
straw in petulance. It was dull and uninteresting to have a bargain
concluded so quickly.

Wallingford, however, knew what he was about. Within an hour everybody
in town knew of his purchase. Speculation that had been mildly active
concerning him now became feverish. He was a rich nabob with money to
throw away; had so much money that he would not even dicker in a horse
deal--and this was the height of human recklessness in Blakeville.
Wallingford, pu