“Yes, I know it.”
Here the agent launched out into a eulogy of the company, and dwelt eloquently upon the advantages which would accrue to the country in general, and to the owner of the Pickett farm in particular, by reason of the building of the railroad as surveyed. Abner Pickett did not appear to be impressed in the slightest degree. The agent began to feel that his worst fears were about to be realized.
“We need the right to pass through your property, Mr. Pickett, and we are willing to pay you for it, I may say liberally. Have you—a—considered what compensation would be satisfactory to you?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well, if I am correctly informed, we run through your land a distance of about seven thousand feet. In no place do we need or take more than fifty feet in width. That would make, as you see, about eight acres. Now, I really don’t know what your land is worth per acre.”
The rising inflection at the end of this last sentence called for an answer; but none was vouchsafed by Abner Pickett. He continued to puff slowly at his pipe and gaze out toward the distant hills.
“As I said, Mr. Pickett, we are willing to pay you liberally. We consider that the right of passage through the gap is of considerable importance and much value to us. How—for instance—how would eight hundred dollars strike you?”
The agent waited, in breathless suspense, for a reply. The old man shifted his gaze from the distant landscape to the agent’s face. He removed his pipe slowly from his mouth, leaned back in his chair, and answered:—
“Young man, it ain’t worth it.”