“You can’t do very much with it,” admitted Wallingford. “However, it is barely possible that I might see a way to utilize it, if the price were reasonable enough. What would you take for it?”
This was an entirely different matter. Mr. Bubble pursed up his lips.
“Well, I don’t know. The land surrounding it is worth two hundred dollars an acre.”
Wallingford grinned, but only internally. He knew this to be a highly exaggerated estimate, but he let it pass without comment.
“No doubt,” he agreed; “but your swamp is worth exactly nothing per square mile; in fact, worth less than nothing. It is only a breeding-place of mosquitoes and malaria. How many acres does it cover?”
“About forty.”
“I suppose ten dollars an acre would buy it?”
“By no means,” protested Mr. Bubble. “I wouldn’t have a right of way split through my farm for four hundred dollars. Couldn’t think of it.”
It was Wallingford’s turn to be silent.