fiddle, and again there are some that can't. It's just a little knack,
that's all, gentlemen, and, of course, Mr. Thayor wasn't used to
chopping."

"The only thing Sam Thayor can handle is money," interposed Keene.
"He's got millions, Billy--millions!"

"Millions," chuckled Randall; "I should think so. He owns about five
of 'em." As he spoke he half rose from his chair and waved his hand to
a well-dressed, gray-haired man whose eyes were searching the crowded
hall. "Thayor!" he shouted.

As the new-comer moved closer the whole group rose to greet him.

"I'm afraid, my dear Jack, I've kept you all waiting," the banker
began. "A special meeting of the Board detained me longer than I had
anticipated. I hope you will forgive me. I am not usually late, I
assure you, gentlemen. This for me?" and he picked up his waiting
cocktail.

Holcomb, although his eyes had not wavered from Thayor, had not yet
greeted him. That a man so quiet and unostentatious belonged to the
favoured rich was a new experience to him. He was also waiting for
some sign of recognition from the financial potentate, the democracy
of the woods being in his blood.

Randall waited an instant and seeing Thayor's lack of recognition
blurted out in his hearty way:

"Why, it's Holcomb, Sam; Billy Holcomb of Moose River."