As the Squire took the telegram, Sibley scratched a match on the back of his pantaloons and waiting for the sulphur to burn out lit his cigar. Ever after the smell of sulphur brought to the Squire of Grey Pine the sense of some pleasant association and then a less agreeable remembrance.
"Read it—read it out loud, Penhallow! It was a near thing. Wardlow couldn't meet us—be here at noon. Read it—I've read it about ten times—want to hear it again. I've been as near broke as you—but that's an old story. When you're at your last dollar, buy a fast pair of trotters—one thousand-dollar pair—and drive them. Up goes your credit! Told you that once."
Penhallow looked up from the telegram. "Is this certain?"
"Yes, it has been repeated—you can rely on it."
"WASHINGTON, Willard's Hotel.
"Mr. Stanton has given contract for field artillery to the Penhallow
Mills.
"RICHARD AINSELEY."
Penhallow had read it aloud as he stood. Then he sat down.
"Don't speak to me for a moment, Sibley. Thank God!" he murmured, while the care-wrinkled face of the veteran speculator looked at him with a faint smile of affectionate regard.
"Well," said Penhallow, "is this all?"