“That’s all right!” chuckled Alex. “Now tell me what they ride for. In other words, what’s the answer?”
“The night-riders want ten or twelve cents a pound for their tobacco, and the planters on the lower lands near the river are willing to sell theirs for five or six cents a pound, because they can raise more crops a year and because their land is easier tilled.”
“And so they’re getting up a combination in restraint of trade, eh?” laughed Alex. “That seems to be the proper thing to do.”
“I don’t know about that,” Jule went on, “but they’re trying to equalize prices by reducing the supply. Whenever these river planters get nice big warehouses packed full of the weed, the night-riders make their appearance in the dark of the moon and burn them down.”
“This night-rider business was all right ten or fifteen years ago,” Clay insisted, “but I don’t believe there’s anything doing in that line now.”
“Then what are all these men out with their horses for?” demanded Jule.
“Yes, and why did they lug us off to a farm house, and lock us up until some one sent word that we wasn’t spies?” Case demanded.
The boys now turned their attention to the old negro who stood on a little elevation at the back of the cove sniffing suspiciously at the air.
“Where did you get that coon?” asked Case.
“He brought our boat down the river to us,” laughed Alex.