When Tom Chripp showed his father the photograph of the house in which he was born, he burst into tears.
“Just as pretty as ever,” he exclaimed. “The roof's been mended, beent it, and just the same flowers all around it as when I was a boy. Tom, I'm glad to see you back safe and sound—but that picter—Tom, when I die, you just put that picter in the coffin with me, won't you? I want your grandfather to see that the old place was looked after when he was gone.”
Tom promised.
A dark featured, dark haired man entered Mr. Strout's store. The proprietor knew he was a stranger—perhaps just moved into town, and a prospective customer.
“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.”