“Certain. I ain't got anything again' 'em,” Mr. Ball agreed quickly. “I guess they know what they're about. By the bye, Mr. Crewe,” he added, coming dangerously near the varnish again, and drawing back, “you hain't happened to have seen Job Braden, have you?”
“Job Braden!” exclaimed Mr. Crewe, “Job Braden! What's all this mystery about Job Braden? Somebody whispers that name in my ear every day. If you mean that smooth-faced cuss that stutters and lives on Braden's Hill, I called on him, but he was out. If you see him, tell him to come up to Wedderburn, and I'll talk with him.”
Mr. Ball made a gesture to indicate a feeling divided between respect for Mr. Crewe and despair at the hardihood of such a proposition.
“Lord bless you, sir, Job wouldn't go.”
“Wouldn't go?”
“He never pays visits,—folks go to him.”
“He'd come to see me, wouldn't he?”
“I—I'm afraid riot, Mr. Crewe. Job holds his comb rather high.”
“Do you mean to say this two-for-a-cent town has a boss?”
“Silas Grantley was born here,” said Mr. Ball—for even the worm will turn. “This town's got a noble history.”