And just
beyond Caleb Hunter's own high box hedge, Dexter Allison's enormous
stucco and timber "summer lodge" sprawled amid a round dozen acres of
green lawn and landscape gardening, its front to the river.
To Dexter Allison's blame or credit--the nature of the verdict
depending entirely upon whether it was rendered by the older or the
newer generation--was laid the transformation of Morrison, the town
proper. Caleb Hunter had known Allison at college, where the latter
had been prominent both because of the brilliance of his wardrobe and
the reputed size of his father's steadily accumulating resources.
Since that time seven-figure fortunes such as the younger Allison had
inherited, had become too general to be any longer spectacular. But
Dexter Allison's garments had always retained their insistent note.
Hunter himself had sold Allison the ground upon which the stucco house
stood; he had heartily agreed that it was an ideal spot for a loafing
place--and the fishing was good, too! Now whenever Caleb thought of
those first conferences which had preceded the sale, and recalled
Allison's accentuation of the natural beauties of the spot, Caleb
allowed himself to smile.
The fishing was still far above reproach, a little further back
country--and Dexter Allison owned the sawmills that droned in the
valley. His men drove his timber down from the hills in the north; his
men piled the yellow planks upon his flat cars which ran in over his
spur line that had crept up from the south.
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