“Nothing new at the muskeg, sir,” he reported to Jernyngham rather curtly, and walked his horse toward Prescott.
“We were passing,” he told him, and indicated the pile of grain. “You’re not selling right away?”
“No; I’m not ready to haul the crop in to the elevators yet. I’ve one or two more pressing things to do.”
“Mayn’t you miss a chance? Prices are pretty good.”
Prescott was on his guard; he felt that Curtis suspected him.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “I guess they won’t fall much.”
“Your neighbors mean to sell, though it’s quite likely that’s to meet their bills, and you always tried to get in on the first of the market until this year. It must have cost you a pile to put in that big crop.”
“It did.”
“Then how have you got so prosperous since last fall?”
It was a pointed question, because everybody in the district knew that Prescott had sold only a few head of cattle and a horse or two, while he would shortly have his accounts to meet.