Two or three summer residents were mentioned who were supposed to be rich, but it did not appear that any of them kept valuables at their summer homes.
John Trafton had not taken any part in the conversation hitherto, and if he had been prudent he would have continued to remain silent, but a man excited by drink is not likely to be discreet.
He broke silence when there came a lull in the discussion.
“There’s one man you haven’t mentioned,” he said, “who keeps more money on hand than Mr. Irving or any one else you have spoken of.”
“A man in the village here?” asked the landlord.
“He means you, Mr. Jones,” said Ben Barton jocosely. “Ain’t we all of us bringing you money every day? You ought to have a pile by this time.”
“So I might if all that were owing me would pay up,” retorted the landlord.
As Ben was one of his debtors, this was felt to be a fair hit, and there was a laugh at his expense.
“P’r’aps Trafton means himself,” suggested Ben by way of diversion.
“I wish I did,” said the fisherman. “Well, I may be rich some time; stranger things have happened.”