Tom sat on a tree stump. Carter was being more friendly than usual. He was carrying a gourd full of ink, which he placed on another stump. He set down a deerskin bag, which jingled pleasantly with coins. In one pocket he found a turkey-buzzard pen. From another he brought out an official-looking paper.
"Here is the deed for the south field," he explained. "Here's a pen. I'll hold the ink for you. You make your mark right here."
"I don't need to make my mark," said Tom proudly. "I know how to sign my name."
"Then hurry up and do it. Mrs. Carter has dinner ready, and I got to get back to the house."
Tom took the paper and looked at it uncertainly. "I don't sign any paper till I know what I'm signing. I want time to—to go over this careful like."
He could make out a few of the words, and that was all. But not for anything would he admit that he could not read it.
"You told me you wanted to sell," said Carter. "I said I would buy. I am keeping my part of the bargain. I even brought the money with me."
Tom's face grew red. He looked down at the paper in his hand. He glanced at Abe seated on the fence. A struggle was taking place between pride and common sense. Common sense won.
"Abe, come here," he called.
Abe went on reading.