“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. “I guess you're a lawyer lookin' for points, but you're on the wrong track. You won't get 'em.”
“I'm not a lawyer, Mr. Strout. I only inquired thinking my friend Mr. Maxwell might—”
“Well, he won't,” said Strout. “Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer cheated me out of one store but he can't drive me out of this. He thought he was awful smart, but when he bought the store he didn't buy the land. It belonged to the town. I'm one of the selectmen, and one of the assessors found it out and told me, and I bought it—an' this store an' way up to the sky, and the land way down to China belongs to O. Strout.”
“I am much obliged, Mr. Strout, for your courtesy—only one more question and then I'll try and find my friend Mr. Maxwell—if somebody will be kind enough to tell me where he is.”
“You didn't ask where he was. If you want to know he's up to the Hospital. He's had his leg off, an'll have to walk on crutches.”
“So bad as that,—I'm very sorry,” said the stranger.
“I've got to put up some orders—see that sign?” and he pointed to one which read:
“When You've transacted your Business, Think of Home, Sweet Home.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Strout, for taking so much of your valuable time. Do you know whether Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer is in town?”