The morning found him in Grand Rapids. The lumbermen received him with suspicion. It was apparent they were aware of his existence, had expected his arrival. They were willing to talk, but not to deal. They knew the Le Bar tract, of course. It was desirable, but none of them cared to undertake it.
Their attitude was difficult to understand until one old gentleman bruskly informed Jim he did not care to spend his good money buying a lawsuit.
“Why a lawsuit?” Jim asked.
“We were tipped off to you, young man. From a dependable source we know there’s something wrong with that tract, and we’re taking no chances on it.”
“Have you investigated it? Will you investigate it?”
“No. It’s a desirable tract, but it’s not necessary. We can get along without it, and just now we’re too busy to go fooling round with a doubtful title.”
“You can easily investigate the title.”
“What’s the use? We know your option is disputed. We know we’d take on a lawsuit with it, and we don’t need any lawsuits.”
At last Jim understood. Moran had taken his steps, as he said he would. He had promised that Jim would be unable to dispose of his option, and had made good his promise. The task had been simple. He had notified all possible buyers that he would contest Jim’s option; that he claimed some lien or title. Jim knew when he came face to face with the impassable. He put his option in his pocket and returned to Diversity.
Neither magazine nor newspaper could hold his attention on the train. His mind could not be made to forget the weight that lay upon it; his heart could not be numbed to pain by anaesthetic. Jim was young. Suffering was new to him, and experience had not showed him how best to endure it.