Nick looked hurt; this was the first time his kingdom had been invaded. He kicked the door sullenly.
“I can’t get the preacher if he’s out at Smither’s Ridge.”
“Nick,” said Mr. Opp, equally hurt, “is that the way for a subordinate reporter to talk to a’ editor? You don’t seem to realize that this here is a very serious and large transaction. There may be hundreds of dollars involved. It’s a’ awful weight of responsibility for one man. I’m willing to finance it and conduct the main issues, but I’ve got to have the backing of all the other [p109] parties. Now it’s with you whether the preacher gets there or not.”
“Shall I hunt up Mat Lucas, too?” asked Nick as he started forth.
“No; that’s my branch of the work: but—say—Nick, your sister will have to be there; she owns some shares.”
“All right,” said Nick; “her buggy is hitched up in front of Tucker’s. I’ll tell her to wait till you come.”
Mr. Opp was not long in following. He walked down the road with an important stride, his bosom scarcely able to accommodate the feeling of pride and responsibility that swelled it. He was in a position of trust; his fellow-citizens would look to him, a man of larger experience and business ability, to deal with these moneyed strangers. He would be fair, but shrewd. He knew the clever wiles of the capitalists; he would meet them with calm but unyielding dignity.
It was in this mood that he came upon Miss Jim, who was in the act of disentangling a long lace scarf from her buggy whip. Her flushed face and flashing [p110] eyes gave such unmistakable signs of wrath that Mr. Opp glanced apprehensively at the whip in her hand, and then at Jimmy Fallows, who was hitching her horse.
“Howdy, Mr. Opp,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to meet a gentleman, after what I’ve seen.”
“I hope,” said Mr. Opp, “that our friend here ain’t been indulging in his customary—”