So he went back to Dr. Squiers's house and borrowed the Doctor's
horse and buggy.
He drove along the turnpike for a time in silence. Then it struck him
that there was a peculiar air of neatness about the places he passed.
The barns and fences all seemed newly painted, and he remembered that he
hadn't seen an advertising sign since he left town.
A mile farther on he came upon a gang of the sign painters, who with
their huge brushes were rapidly painting the entire length of a
weather-worn fence with white paint.
Mr. Hopkins reined in and watched them for a few moments.
"You sign-painters don't seem to be getting any signs started," he
observed.
"No," replied one of the men, laughing. "This is a peculiar job for our
firm to tackle. We've made a contract to paint out every sign in the
district."
"Paint 'em out!"
"Yes, cover them up with new paint, and get rid of them."
"But how about the advertisers? Don't they own the spaces now?"
"They did; but they've all been bought up. John Merrick owns the spaces
now, and we're working for John Merrick."
"Who's he?"
"Some friend of Mr. Forbes, up at Elmhurst."
Mr. Hopkins was not a profane man, but he said a naughty word. And then
he cut his horse so fiercely with the whip that the poor beast gave a
neigh of terror, and started down the road at a gallop.
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