Roger stared stupidly across the canal at the speaker, incomprehension taking the place of anger. "Oh," he said at last, "it's all a mistake. You got on the wrong tract: this is my land."
"Like —— it is!"
"What?"
"Don't try to come that on us; don't waste your breath. Think we're dummies? This is our land. We bought it last week. And I'm telling you to keep off of it from now on. Oh, I got the right description; a thousand acres west of a line from Deer Key there to the Cypress Swamp. Want to look at the deed? Give you our lawyer's address if you do."
"Who is your lawyer?"
"Big Tom Connors, Washington, D. C. And if it'll make you feel any better—why, he's a law partner of Senator Fairclothe."
"If you think you have really bought this land," said Roger slowly, "you have been cheated."
"Huh! Do we look like easy marks? Listen, boh: you're the fish that got hooked. You bought a bum title. Get that? Didn't know this little piece of dirt was in the courts, eh? Well, it was; and Big Tom got it, and we got it from him. Your title ain't worth the paper it's written on. Now, you're guilty of tresp——Hold on!"
Roger had thrown his self-control to the winds. He leaped into the canal and wallowed across.
"Get off, my land!" he growled. "Get off!"