The farmer scowled and shook his head.

"Too much," he said, as Yates was about to offer more. "'Taint worth
it. Two and a half would be about the right figure. Don'no but that's
too much. I'll think on it going home, and charge you what it's worth.
I'll be ready to leave in about an hour, if that suits you. That's my
team on the other side of the road. If it's gone when you come back,
I'm gone, an' you'll have to get somebody else."

With this Bartlett drew his coat sleeve across his mouth and departed.

"That's him exactly," said the barkeeper. "He's the most cantankerous
crank in the township. And say, let me give you a pointer. If the
subject of 1812 comes up,--the war, you know,--you'd better admit that
we got thrashed out of our boots; that is, if you want to get along
with Hiram. He hates Yankees like poison."

"And did we get thrashed in 1812?" asked Yates, who was more familiar
with current topics than with the history of the past.

"Blessed if I know. Hiram says we did. I told him once that we got
what we wanted from old England, and he nearly hauled me over the bar.
So I give you the warning, if you want to get along with him."

"Thank you. I'll remember it. So long."

This friendly hint from the man in the tavern offers a key to the
solution of the problem of Yates' success on the New York press. He
could get news when no other man could. Flippant and shallow as he