a charitable way to put
it--quixotic. He does--strange things like this once in awhile."

The storekeeper found no words to answer, but sat mutely staring at him.
Mr. Worthington coughed again.

"You appear to be an educated man. Haven't I heard some story of your
giving up other pursuits in Boston to come up here for your health?
Certainly I place you now. I confess to a little interest in literature
myself--in libraries."

In spite of his stupefaction at the news he had just received, Wetherell
thought of Mr. Worthington's beaver hat, and of that gentleman's first
interest in libraries, for Cynthia had told the story to her husband.

"It is perhaps an open secret," continued Mr. Worthington, "that in the
near future I intend to establish a free library in Brampton. I feel it
my duty to do all I can for the town where I have made my success, and
there is nothing which induces more to the popular welfare than a good
library." Whereupon he shot at Wetherell another of his keen looks. "I do
not talk this way ordinarily to my customers, Mr. Wetherell," he began;
"but you interest me, and I am going to tell you something in confidence.
I am sure it will not be betrayed."

"Oh, no," said the bewildered storekeeper, who was in no condition to
listen to confidences.

He went quietly to the door, opened it, looked out, and closed it softly.
Then he looked out of the window.

"Have a care of this man Bass," he said, in a lower voice. "He began many
years ago by debauching the liberties of that little town of Coniston,
and since then he has gradually debauched the whole state, judges and
all. If I have a case to try" (he spoke now with more intensity and
bitterness), "concerning my mills, or my bank, before I get through I
find that rascal mixed up in it somewhere, and unless I arrange matters
with him, I--"

He paused abruptly, his eyes going out of the window, pointing with a
long finger at a grizzled man crossing the street with a yellow and red
horse blanket thrown over his shoulders.

"That man, Judge Baker, holding court in this town now, Bass owns body
and soul."

"And the horse blanket?" Wetherell queried, irresistibly.

Dudley Worthington did not smile.

"Take my advice, Mr. Wetherell, and pay off that note somehow." An odor
of the stable pervaded the room, and a great unkempt grizzled head and
shoulders, horse blanket and all, were stuck into it.

"Mornin', Dudley," said the head, "busy?"

"Come right