“Why, it’s a strip of sandy loam between Bridgetown and Lake Erie. It’s too light even to grow Canada-thistles. Well, I guess maybe Watson would be willin’ to swap that sand for our place. I don’t like that man Watson. I can’t say why, unless it’s on account of some things I’ve heard of him and that other feller, Smythe, who’s a partner of his in some way.”
“You mean the Smythe who keeps the store at Bridgetown?”
“The same. You know him pretty well, I guess. He cheated you out of a dozen mink-hides, didn’t he?”
“He tried to,” answered Boy with a smile.
“Mr. Watson’ll find that we’re not wantin’ to trade farms,” affirmed the father.
“There’s Gloss,” suggested Boy. “If she was where there was a good school——” He hesitated and looked at Big McTavish.
The man laughed.
“Why, bless your heart,” he cried, “you couldn’t drag the girl away from this bush. She loves it—loves every nook and corner of it.”
Boy sighed.
“She sure does,” he agreed. “She sure does.”