"Well I remember
it. I sold it myself to your predecessor, Mr Wishart,
for thirty dollars--the last purchase he ever made, poor
man. It was great business for me--I had only two others
in the store like it. One of them old Milburn bought--the
father of this man, d'ye mind him?--the other stayed by
me a matter of seven years. I carried a light stock in
those days."
It was no longer a light stock. The two men involuntarily
glanced round them for the satisfaction of the contrast
Murchison evoked, though neither of them, from motives
of vague delicacy, felt inclined to dwell upon it. John
Murchison had the shyness of an artist in his commercial
success, and the minister possibly felt that his relation
toward the prosperity of a member had in some degree the
embarrassment of a tax-gatherer's. The stock was indeed
heavy now. You had to go upstairs to see the ranges,
where they stood in rows, and every one of them bore
somewhere upon it, in raised black letters, John Murchison's
name. Through the windows came the iterating ring on the
iron from the foundry in Chestnut Street which fed the
shop, with an overflow that found its way from one end
of the country to the other. Finicking visitors to Elgin
found this wearing, but to John Murchison it was the
music that honours the conqueror of circumstances.
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