Nor had the pulp company been idle. Its new mills had arisen beside the
river at Higgins's Bridge, machinery had been installed, and the little
hamlet was beginning to speculate in town lots and to look forward to
unexampled prosperity.
But before the ice was out of the river disquieting rumors began to
breathe out of Higgins's Bridge. They were the meerest vapor of
conjecture at first, apparently based upon no evidence whatever, but
friends delighted to convey them to Scattergood, as friends always
delight to perform such a disagreeable duty.
"Hear things hain't goin' right down to the new pulp mill," said Deacon
Pettybone, one bitterly cold afternoon, when he came into Scattergood's
store to thaw the icicles out of his sparse beard.
"Do tell," said Scattergood.
"Be perty bad for you if they was to go wrong, wouldn't it?"
"Perty bad, Deacon."
"'Most ruin you, wouldn't it? Clean you out? Leave you with nothin'?"
"Hain't mortgaged my health. Hain't mortgaged my brains. Have them left,
Deacon. Don't figger I'm clean bankrupt till them two is gone."
But it was to be noticed that Scattergood toasted his bare toes a great
deal during the ensuing days.
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