As Sim Phinney climbed the hill the magnate, pompous, portly, and imposing, held up a signaling finger. “Just as if he was hailin' a horse car,” described Simeon afterward.
“Phinney,” he said, “come here, I want to speak to you.”
The man of many trades obediently approached.
“Good evenin', Mr. Williams,” he ventured.
“Phinney,” went on the great man briskly, “I want you to give me your figures on a house moving deal. I have bought a house on the Shore Road, the one that used to belong to the—er—Smalleys, I believe.”
Simeon was surprised. “What, the old Smalley house?” he exclaimed. “You don't tell me!”
“Yes, it's a fine specimen—so my wife says—of the pure Colonial, whatever that is, and I intend moving it to the Boulevard. I want your figures for the job.”
The building mover looked puzzled. “To the Boulevard?” he said. “Why, I didn't know there was a vacant lot on the Boulevard, Mr. Williams.”
“There isn't now, but there will be soon. I have got hold of the hundred feet left from the old Seabury estate.”
Mr. Phinney drew a long breath. “Why!” he stammered, “that's where Olive Edwards—her that was Olive Seabury—lives, ain't it?”