"Just the man I wanted to see," said the Poor Boy. "I want advice and help. Yardsley says we're letting a lot of timber go to waste. Now how about a sawmill—right here?"
Mr. Tinker was a joyous bachelor of forty-five. He had been cashier of a bank. A deficit arising, he had been wrongfully accused of direct responsibility, and from prison he had come straight to the Poor Boy's settlement on special (most special) invitation. He had taken a room (and bath) in the village inn, and had made a little money out of contracts which the Poor Boy had thrown his way.
"What's the flow here in summer?" asked Mr. Tinker doubtfully.
"About half what it is now," said the Poor Boy.
"Hum—that would be width so and so—depth so and so.... What's the fall?"
"Thirty feet."
"Can't use it all, can we?"
The Poor Boy shook his head.
"Well—I tell you, I'll bring a tape-measure to-morrow and go into the thing thoroughly. By the way, you know Mrs. Caxton, who's staying at the inn?"
"Yes—yes," said the Poor Boy, "they accused her of shoplifting and it wasn't she at all."