their social intercourse and the general acquisitive policy of the club was concerned. There existed, of course, that tacit mutual derision based upon individual sporting methods, individual preferences, obstinate theories concerning the choice of rods, reels, lines, and the killing properties of favorite trout-flies. Major Brent and Colonel Hyssop continued to nag and sneer at each other all day long, yet they remained as mutually dependent upon each other as David and Jonathan. For thirty years the old gentlemen had angled in company, and gathered inspiration out of the same books, the same surroundings, the same flask. They were the only guests at the club-house that wet May in 1900, although Peyster Sprowl was expected in June, and young Dr. Lansing had wired that he might arrive any day. An evening rain-storm was drenching the leaded panes in the smoking-room; Colonel Hyssop drummed accompaniment on the windows and smoked sulkily, looking across the river towards the O'Hara house, just visible through the pelting downpour.
"Irritates me every time I see it," he said. "Some day," observed Major Brent, comfortably, "I'm going to astonish you all." "How?" demanded the Colonel, tersely. The Major examined the end of his cigarette with a cunning smile. "It isn't for sale, is it?" asked the Colonel. "Don't try to be mysterious; it irritates me." Major Brent savored his cigarette leisurely. "Can you keep a secret?" he inquired. The Colonel intimated profanely that he could. "Well, then," said the Major, in calm triumph, "there's a tax sale on to-morrow at Foxville." "Not the O'Hara place?" asked the Colonel, excited. The Major winked. "I'll fix it," he said, with a patronizing squint at his empty glass.But he did not "fix it" exactly as he intended; the taxes on the O'Hara place were being paid at that very moment. He found it out next day, when he drove over to Foxville; he also learned that the Rev. Amasa Munn, Prophet of the Shining Band Community, had paid the taxes and was preparing to quit Maine and re-establish his colony of fanatics on the O'Hara land, in the very center and heart of the wealthiest and most rigidly exclusive country club in America. 

That night the frightened Major telegraphed to Munnville, Maine, an offer to buy the O'Hara place at double its real value. The business-like message ended: "Wire reply at my expense." 

The next morning an incoherent reply came by wire, at the Major's expense, refusing to sell, and quoting several passages of Scripture at Western Union rates per word. The operator at the station counted the words carefully, and collected eight dollars and fourteen cents from the Major, whose fury deprived him 

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