“Best in the world,” said the youngster. “Was you thinkin’ of buyin’ a farm?”
Wallingford smiled and shook his head.
“I scarcely think so,” he replied.
“’Twouldn’t do you any good if you was,” retorted Bob. “There ain’t a farm hereabouts for sale.”
To prove it, he pointed out the extent of each farm, gave the name of its owner and told how much he was worth, to all of which Wallingford listened most intently.
They had been driving to the east, but, coming to a fork in the road leading to the north, Bob took that turning without instructions, still chattering his local Bradstreet. Along this road was again rich and smiling farm land, but Wallingford, seeming throughout the drive to be eagerly searching for something, evinced a new interest when they came to a grove of slender, straight-trunked trees.
“Old man Mescott gets a hundred gallons of maple syrup out of that grove every spring,” said Bob in answer to a query. “He gets two dollars a gallon, then he stays drunk till plumb the middle of summer. Was you thinkin’ of buyin’ a maple grove?”
Wallingford looked back in thoughtful speculation, but ended by shaking his head, more to himself than to Bob.
They passed through a woods.
“Good timber land, that,” suggested Wallingford.