“Oh, well, if you consider a boy's advice material——”
“I know Hi's honest,” declared the old lady, tartly. “And that's what I'm sure you ain't! Besides,” she added, sadly, “Hi's as much interested in this thing as I be. If the farm's got to be sold, it puts Hi out of a job.”
“Oh, very well,” said the real estate man, and he drew a rather soiled, folded paper from his inner pocket.
He seemed to hesitate the fraction of a second about showing the paper. It increased Hi's suspicion—this hesitancy. If the man had a perfectly good option on the farm, why didn't he go about the matter boldly?
But when he got the paper in his own hands he could see nothing wrong with it. It seemed written in straight-forward language, the signatures were clear enough, and as he had seen and read Uncle Jeptha's will, he was quite sure that this was the old man's signature to the option which, for the sum of twenty dollars in hand paid to him, he agreed to sell his farm, situated so-and-so, for sixteen hundred dollars, cash, same to be paid over within one year of date.
“Of course,” said Hiram, slowly, handing back the paper—indeed, Pepper had kept the grip of his forefinger and thumb on it all the time—“Of course, Mrs. Atterson's lawyer must see this before she agrees to anything.”
“Why, Hiram! I ain't got no lawyer,” exclaimed the old lady.
“Go to Mr. Strickland, who made Uncle Jeptha's will,” Hiram said to her. Then he turned to Pepper:
“What's the name of the witness to that old man's signature?”
“Abel Pollock.”