Mr. Camp knit his brows a moment, expectorated slowly into the wood box, and then nodded his head.
“How ’bout that, Bud?” he exclaimed suddenly. “How did that trouble ’bout your pa’s farm ever come out?”
“I didn’t know there was any trouble about it,” answered Bud. “What do you mean?”
Mr. Camp looked surprised. Then he slapped his knee.
“Bud,” he almost chuckled, “you hang onto that ring and hang on to John Reed, or ‘Jack Stanley’ as he calls hisself. Ef I ain’t mistook, he kin do ye some good.”
Bud was alert.
“I feel it in my bones he is goin’ to help me somehow. What is it?”
“I kin see that lawyer as took ye in never told you. But everybody up this way knows the facks. I ain’t desirin’ to make no trouble fur nobody, and may be ’tain’t my say, but facks is facks.”
“You mean ’bout the deed?” interrupted the rotund Mrs. Camp, who was one of those country women who know what is going on around them.