So the deacon went thoughtfully on his way to Wilson's. He found Tom Wilson breakfasting alone. To the deacon's look of surprise his neighbor vouchsafed the information that a glad and glorious band of young people had been "cuttin' up" nearly all night there, and the boys and Ma were sleepin' in, like.
Ringold hung his hat on the stovepoker and got down to business at once. "Say, Tom, I've had an offer for my back hundred. Don' know whether to sell or not. Thought I'd like to hear what you'd advise."
Wilson drained his cup and set it down in the saucer, methodically. The news did not seem to surprise him. "Who made the offer, Hinter?" he asked.
The deacon started. "Yes, did he tell you about it?"
"No," Wilson pushed back his chair and felt for his pipe, "but he seems to want to own the whole Settlement. He made me an offer for my place and he tried to buy Cobin Keeler's farm, too, so Cobin says."
"When, Tom, when?" asked Ringold, eagerly.
"Last night. At least that's when he made me my offer an' he must have gone across to Cobin's after he left me. Cobin jest left here not ten minutes ago. He come over to tell me all about it."
The deacon sat silent, thinking. "What's their game, Tom?" he asked suddenly.
"His game you mean."
"No, I don't either, I mean his and Scroggie's game; of course Scroggie's behind him."