"I know," says I. "So do I. But some day, if we wait long enough, we may have a chance to laugh at him. I've lived a good many year and I've seen it work that way pretty often. We'll wait—and when we do laugh, we'll laugh hard."
And we didn't have to wait so turrible long neither. We got a carpenter in, told him to keep it a secret, but to plan how we could build the backyard extension. The plannin' and estimatin' kept us busy and we forgot about everything else. Fust along I expected young Taylor would pester us with more schemes, but he didn't. He never came nigh us once, fact is he seemed mighty anxious to keep out of our way, and so long as he did we didn't complain. His dad come crowin' and chucklin' around a couple of times and finally Jacobs lost his temper and told him if he ever showed his face on our premises again he was liable to be put to the expense of havin' it repaired by the doctor. Ebenezer vowed vengeance and law suits, but he went, and after that he sent a boy for his mail instead of comin' to fetch it himself.
One forenoon, about eleven o'clock 'twas, I was standin' on the store platform, when I heard the Old Harry's own row in the "Palace Billiard, Pool and Sipio Parlors." Loud voices, all goin' at once, and two or three different assortments of language. Jim Henry heard it, too, and come out to listen.
"Skipper," he says, sudden; "what day is this?"
"Why, Thursday," says I, "ain't it? Oh, you mean what day of the month. Hey? By the everlastin'! I declare if it ain't the fust of June!"
"The day Foster's mortgage falls due," he says, excited. "I wonder.... You don't suppose—"
He didn't have to suppose, for inside of the next two minutes we both knew. Three men came bustin' out of the billiard room door. One was Philander himself, the other was Ezra Colcord, the lawyer, and the third was our old shipmate and bosom friend, Ebenezer Taylor. The old man was fairly frothin' at the mouth.
"You—you—" he sputtered, "you've deceived me. You've lied to me. You led me to think—"
"I don't see as you've got any kick, Mr. Taylor," purrs Philander, smilin'. "You've got your money. What more can you ask?"
"But—but I don't want the money. I want this property, and I'll have it."