"What can I do for you?" he inquired blandly, for he was capable of
being affable.
"I am looking for Mr. Hiram Maxwell."
"He ain't here no more."
"But he's your partner, isn't he?"
"Didn't you read my sign? There ain't no partner on it."
"There ought to be."
Mr. Strout looked at the stranger with astonishment. Then he laughed,
and, with a remembrance of Mr. Richard Ricker, asked sneeringly:
"What asylum did you come from?"
"I beg your pardon," said the stranger. "I used to know Mr. Maxwell,
and they told me in the city that he was a member of the firm of
Strout and Maxwell."
"Who told ye?"
"The trustees of the estate of Mr. Sawyer. Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer.
Did you know him?"
"I never knew any good of him. So they told yer, did they? That shows
how much attention they give to business. The old store was burned up
and that busted the firm. This store's mine from cellar to chimney."
"The old firm must have paid you well."
"Pretty well--but I made my money in State Street, speculating and
I'm well fixed."
"I'm glad to hear that you've prospered. I wish my friend Maxwell had
been as fortunate. What became of his interest and Mr. Sawyer's in
the store?"
"Went up in smoke, didn't I tell yer?"
"I beg your pardon," said the stranger again. "But doesn't your store
stand on land belonging to the old firm?"
Strout squinted at the stranger.
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