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“They is always some comp’ny or somethin’ suin’ you, ain’t they?” asked Sandage cheerfully, coming up and peering down into the box. The receptacle was a large dry-goods carton lined with tin to make it mouse proof. It was three quarters full of a most hopeless jumble of papers.

“Yeh, fellers sue me because they ain’t got no reason about ‘em. They sue me because I out-trade ’em and they git riled. A man who sues because he’s mad is jest a plain fool— Well, thank Gawd!”

He heaved himself up with a single leaf of some old book, and continued his philosophy of lawsuits:

“You've got to have justice and the law on yore side—more specially the law.”

“What’s you got there?” asked Jim, who was not a philosopher.

“The contrack Buckin’ham Sharp wanted to see, I reckon it’s that. . . .” Mr. Jones opened the paper and perused it all over, the back as intently as the front; finally he handed it to Mr. Sandage. “Don’t that say somethin’ about stoves, Jim?” he asked.

Sandage took the paper with a certain air of importance, cleared his throat, and began reading in the long whine which the hill folk reserve for such tasks. Some of the words he spelled in a whisper before attempting to pronounce.

“The Cin, c-i-n cin, n-a-t nat,t-i, Cincinnati Stove Comp’ny h-e-r-e-b-y hereby agrees. . .”

“That’s it,” interrupted the fat man, taking the paper from his companion. Mr. Jones required only four words to identify an instrument he had dropped into the box ten years before. He folded the contract and put it into his pocket.

“Now, what can I do for you, Jim?” inquired the magnate in his affable buzz.

Sandage scratched his head. “Is Perfessor Overall in town to-day?”

“Believe I seen him at the courthouse. I understan’ he’s