Oliver Baxter, junior, was born on a vile October day in 1890—at seven o’clock in the morning, to be exact. People were more concerned over the plight of a band of gypsies, camped on the edge of the swamp below the Baxter house, however, than they were over the birth of Oliver, although he was a very important child. The gypsies, journeying southward, had been overtaken by an unexampled and unseasonable blizzard, and citizens of Rumley, in whom curiosity rather than pity had been excited by the misfortunes of the shivering nomads, neglected for the moment that civic pride which heretofore had never failed to respond to any increase in population as provided solely by nature.…
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