“Lawyer Stockwell understands it all right, mother,” he said chuckling. “It’s this way, Son. There’s only two persons who kin give you a clean title to that land which you heired from your pa. An’ that’s them as is Ole Bill Reed’s heirs. An’ ef you want to know who them air, it’s Jack Stanley an’ his wife.”
Bud sat up trying to understand.
“Ef any one has claims on that farm besides you,” Mr. Camp continued, “it’s John Reed and his wife. An’ they ain’t got no genoine claim except to do the fair and square thing and that’s what ole Bill and his wife didn’t. Ef they’re your friends, they’ll do it. An’ when they do an’ give you a deed to what your pa hones’ly paid fur, Bud Wilson’ll have as clean an’ tidy a bit o’ ground as they is in Scott County.”
The boy’s brow was wrinkled.
“You say my foster father understands? What do you mean? How is he interested in all this?”
“Far be it from me to make reflections,” said Mr. Camp slowly, “but lawyers has more tricks an’ one. I ain’t sayin’ he’d do it. But what ef he or some one else’d buy that sixty acres o’ Jack Stanley. Where’d you come in?”
“I see,” answered Bud, “but I can’t think you’re right. Any way,” he added, “I’ll keep my eyes open. As for this,” and he whirled the dull, brassy circle on his finger, “I guess it’s workin’ all right. It ain’t brought me anything bad yet—exceptin’ my muddy pants and the swamp.”
Mr. Camp’s return to the house had been prompted by curiosity. When Bud had asked a few more questions about his father and the farm, Mr. Camp suggested that it would be well to hurry to the stranded aeroplane.
“Will you help me?” asked Bud eagerly.
“Will we?” answered Josh, speaking for his father and himself. “When a real show comes right out here in our front yard without no charge to see it—I guess we’ll see it ef we have to shet down the mill.”