As Wallingford left the room, attended by the almost obsequious Bubble, he caught a lingering glance of interest, curiosity, and perhaps more, from the bright eyes of Fannie Bubble. Her stepmother, however, distinctly sniffed.
Meanwhile, Wallingford, at the gate, turned for a moment toward the distant swamp where it lay now ebony and glittering silver in the moonlight, knitted his brows in perplexity, lit another of his black cigars, and strolled back to the hotel.
What on earth should he do with that swamp, now that he had it? Something good ought to be hinged on it. Should he form a drainage company to restore it to good farming land? No. At best he could only get a hundred and fifty dollars an acre, or, say, six thousand dollars for the forty. The acreage alone was to cost him a thousand; no telling what the drainage would cost, but whatever the figure there would not be profit enough to hypothecate. And it was no part of Wallingford’s intention to do any actual work. He was through for ever with drudgery; for him was only creation.
What should he do with that swamp? As he thought of it, his mind’s eye could see only its blackness. It was, after all, only a mass of dense, sticky, black mud!
Still revolving this problem in mind, Wallingford went to his bedroom, where he had scarcely arrived when Bob Ranger followed him, his sleeves rolled up again and a pail of steaming water in each hand.
“The old man said you was to have a bath when you come in,” stated Bob. “How hot do you want it?”
“I think I’ll let it go till morning and have it cold,” replied Wallingford, chuckling.
“All right,” said Bob. “It’s your funeral and not mine. I’ll just pour this in now and it’ll get cool by morning.”
In the next room—wherein the bed had been hastily replaced by two chairs, an old horsehair lounge and a kitchen table covered with a red table-cloth—Wallingford found a huge tin bath-tub, shaped like an elongated coal scuttle, dingy white on the inside and dingy green on the outside, and battered full of dents.