Captain Sol smiled. “Jumpin' it, ain't they?” he said, nodding toward the “Colonial.” “Be there by the tenth, won't it?”
“Tenth!” Mr. Phinney sniffed disgust. “It'll be there by the sixth, or I miss my guess.”
“Yup. Say, Sim, how soon could you land that shanty of mine in the road if I give you the job to move it?”
“I couldn't get it up to the Main Street lot inside of a fortnight,” replied Sim, after a moment's reflection. “Fur's gettin' it in the road goes, I could have it here day after to-morrow if I had gang enough.”
The depot master took the cigar out of his mouth and blew a ring of smoke. “All right,” he drawled, “get gang enough.”
Phinney jumped. “You mean you've decided to take up with Payne's offer and swap your lot for his?” he gasped. “Why, only two or three days ago you said—”
“Ya-as. That was two or three days ago, and I've been watchin' the 'Colonial' since. I cal'late the movin' habit's catchin'. You have your gang here by noon to-day.”
“Sol Berry, are you crazy? You ain't seen Abner Payne; he's out of town—”
“Don't have to see him. He's made me an offer and I'll write and accept it.”
“But you've got to have a selectmen's permit to move—”