The bank president seemed to be thinking.
“I suppose it’ll be Bud’s when the boy’s of age?” he suggested, at last.
“They ain’t no title to it,” remarked old Camp, with a judicial air.
“That’s what I was trying to recall,” said Mr. Elder. “Seems to me I’ve heard Attorney Stockwell say so.”
“There ye air,” exclaimed the bewhiskered mill owner, rising and striking the table. “Stockwell! There ye said it. He’s this boy’s gardeen an’ ought to be lookin’ out fur him ef all’s on the square. Why ain’t he cleared the title to that land? Why ain’t he, the old skin? I’ll tell ye why, Mr. Elder. He don’t want to.”
“How’s that,” asked the bank president, leaning forward, with interest.
“Anybody goin’ to buy that land offen the boy when he gits it ’thouten a title?”
“I reckon not,” ventured Mr. Elder.
“There ye said it,” snapped Mr. Camp, his whiskers vibrating in his excitement. “No one exceptin’ his gardeen mebbe fur little nor nuthin’.”