About the first of February the filling and grading were finished and the construction of the streets began, and the middle of March saw the final disappearance of everything, except that dark, eight-acre spot of Silas Trimmer’s, which might remind one of the tract once known as the Westmarsh. In its place lay a broad, yellow checker-board, formed by intersecting streets of asphalt edged with cement pavements, and in the center, at the crossing of broad Burnit and Applerod Avenues, there arose, over a spot where once frogs had croaked and mosquitoes clustered in crowds, a pretty club-house, which was later to be donated to the suburb; and a great satisfaction fell upon the soul of Bobby Burnit like a benediction.
Also one Oliver P. Applerod added two full inches to his strut. He seldom came out to the scene of actual operations, for there was none there except workmen to see his frock-coat and silk hat; but occasionally, from a sense of duty inextricably mingled with self-assertiveness, he paid a visit of inspection, and upon one of these his eyes were confronted by a huge new board sign, visible for half a mile, that overlooked the Applerod Addition from the hills to the north. It bore but two words: “Trimmer’s Addition.” Applerod, holding his broadcloth tight about him to keep it from yellow contamination as a car rumbled by, looked and wiped his glasses and looked again, then, highly excited, he called Bobby to him.
“Why didn’t you tell me of this?” he demanded, pointing to the sign.
Bobby, happy in sweater and high boots and liberal decorations of clay, only laughed.
“The sign went up only yesterday,” he stated.
“But it is competition. Unfair competition! He is stealing our thunder,” protested Applerod.
“He has a perfect right to lay out a subdivision if he wants,” said Bobby. “But don’t worry, Applerod. I’ve been over there and the thing is a joke. The tract is one-fourth the size of ours, it is uphill and downhill, only a little grading is being done, streets are cut through but not paved, and a few cheap board sidewalks are being put down. He’s had to pay a lot more for his land than we have, and can not sell his lots any cheaper.”
“There’s no telling what Silas Trimmer will do,” said Applerod, shaking his head.
“Nonsense,” said Bobby; “there is no chance that people will pass by our lots and buy one of his.”
Applerod walked away unconvinced. Had it been any one else than Silas Trimmer who had set up this opposition he would not have minded so much, but Applerod had come to have a mighty fear of John Burnit’s ancient enemy, and presently he came back to Bobby more panic-stricken than ever.