“I tell you again, I'd not take it as a present,” said Merl, half angrily.
“I see,” said Crow, nodding his head sententiously. And then fixing his eyes steadily on him, he said, “You are a mortgagee.”
Merl reddened,—partly anger, partly shame. Indeed, the feeling that such a capacity as Mr. Crow's should have pushed him hard, was anything but complimentary to his self-esteem.
“I don't want to pry into any man's affairs,” said Crow, easily. “Heaven knows it's mighty little matter to Simmy Crow who lives in the big house there. I 'd rather, if I had my choice, be able to walk the wood with my sketch-book and brushes than be the richest man that ever was heartsore with the cares of wealth.”
“And if a friend—a sincere, well-wishing friend—were to bind himself that you should enjoy this same happiness you speak of, Mr. Crow, what would you do in return?”
“Anything he asked me,—anything, at least, that a fair man could ask, and an honest one could do.”
“There's my hand on it, then,” said Merl. “It's a bargain.”
“Ay, but let us hear the conditions,” said Crow. “What could I possibly serve you in, that would be worth this price?”
“Simply this: that you'll answer all my inquiries, so far as you know about this estate; and where your knowledge fails, that you'll endeavor to obtain the information for me.”
“Maybe I could tell you nothing at all—or next to nothing,” said Crow. “Just ask me, now, what's the kind of question you 'd put; for, to tell truth, I 'm not over bright or clever,—the best of me is when I've a canvas before me.”