"Well, s'pose you're a shark. You navigate round among the farmers, and make a smother of big talk about hauling in buckets full of money. You get a committee to visit some creamery where the outfit is salted to make an extra showing. You pay the farmers' expenses, you offer 'em a block of stock, and up goes the creamery in their district with machinery from the promoting company, costing two or three times over what everything is worth. When the whole thing's up, it'll usually dawn on the minds of your stockholders that a creamery ain't much without cows, and their cows ain't got enough milk to pay for the fuel they burn. 'Way back here fifty miles, I had whipped up a creamery; I had a man to run the machinery, but he was a simpleton. He ruined the separator, it had to be sent back to the shop, an' I got mad with him.
"Then he blabbed, told everything he knew, an' a lot he didn't, an' the farmers stopped counting their cows long enough to listen. Hasty words flew round, about fraudulent subscriptions, vitiated transactions, no contracts, ruined farms, going to law—an' I thought it was time to skip. The firm had made me stop there up to this, an' as soon as I ran, they bounced me—I'm all played out here, sir. My native State bids me farewell!"
Hank suddenly ceased speaking, his head dropped on his breast, yet before it did so, he shot one appealing, hopeful glance at his listener. Despite his "don't-care" tone, and off-hand manner, it was plainly to be seen that he felt himself in trouble, and knew that there was one at hand who would help him.
"You've been in a poor business," observed Mr. Tracy, quietly. "You want to quit it?"
"Yes, sir," said Hank, meekly.
"Listen then—" and his companion in his turn began to speak rapidly.
'Tilda Jane, flying about the house, sent many an anxious thought to the closed parlour. What was the minister saying to Hank? Would Hank talk to him freely?
"O Lord! Lord! Lord!" she cried, suddenly stopping and raising her clasped hands to the ceiling, "do make his heart soft—soft as mush, an' don't let him be sassy. The minister is smooth an' nice, an' he would stand sass, but it's awful bad for Hank. He's got to sober down. O Lord, make him solemn—jus' like an owl!"
She dashed a tear from the corner of her eye, and went on with her occupation of wrapping various articles in a red handkerchief.