"Want you to shingle the kitchen so's I can—can cook there. Come and I'll show you." He opened a door in the studio which led into a damp room where the rain had fallen unmolested. "Want you to shingle this room."
"Nothing doing," said the carpenter.
"You won't say that when I show you what I've got here." Gayne's speech was thick and he took Blake's arm and led him across to a large covered stone crock sitting on a bench. "Home brew, Matt. Home brew. We can have many a cozy evening here when this gets into shape."
"Going to keep a horse?" asked the carpenter, lifting up what appeared to be a nosebag.
"No, no, that's strainer. You leave it to me, Matt. I'll give you something'll make your hair curl. All you got to do is shingle—"
"You ain't going to pay for having somebody else's property shingled?"
"'Tain't going to be somebody else's. Going to be mine. I'm going to buy the farm. There's a fortune on it." The speaker's legs were planted far apart to preserve his equilibrium, but even at that he swayed so far toward his visitor that Blake put up his hand to hold him off.
"Which have you found, gold or oil?" he asked, laughing.
His host assumed an impressive dignity. "Not gold, not oil. Spring."