“And what does he get to be?” Owen asked.
“I don’t know yet,” McConnell returned. “Maybe a farmer!” he added, laughing.
Allan then spoke about the fire and the pictures.
“I tell you,” said McConnell, “I haven’t said anything to anybody but the folks at home, and Billy Basset, and the butcher, and—yes, and Mr. Hanford.”
“In that case,” said Owen, “I guess we might as well tell the rest of the town.”
“What do you mean?” McConnell was mystified.
“Only that I thought that maybe we should keep quiet about selling the pictures.”
“I see,” McConnell assented, “until you get the money.”
“Oh, I mean anyway,” said Allan. “Perhaps the factory folks may not want everybody to know, and everybody would know if they heard that they had bought the plates.”
“That settles it!” exclaimed McConnell, “I’ll be quiet. I won’t even tell the postman, and I always tell him everything. Have you printed the proofs yet?”