very, very long profit. As to security, if Festus Clasby's customers had
not a great deal of money they had grass which grew every year, and the
beasts which Festus Clasby fattened and sold at the fairs had sometimes
to eat his debtors out of his book. If his bullocks were not able to do
even this, then Festus Clasby talked to the small farmer about a
mortgage on the land, so that now and again small farmers became herds
for Festus Clasby. In this way was he able to maintain his position with
his back to the hills and his toes in the valley, striding his territory
like a Colossus. When you saw his name on the signboard standing stark
from the landscape, and when you saw Festus Clasby behind his counter,
you knew instinctively that both had always stood for at least twenty
shillings in the pound.


II

Now, it came to pass that on a certain day Festus Clasby was passing
through the outskirts of the nearest country town on his homeward
journey, his cart laden with provisions. At the same moment the spare
figure of a tinker whose name was Mac-an-Ward, the Son of the Bard,
veered around the corner of a street with a new tin can under his arm.
It was the Can with the Diamond Notch.

Mac-an-Ward approached Festus Clasby, who pulled up his cart.

"Well, my good man?" queried Festus Clasby, a phrase usually addressed
across his counter, his hands outspread, to longstanding customers.

"The last of a rare lot," said Mac-an-Ward, deftly poising the tin can
on the top of his fingers, so that it stood level with Festus Clasby's