"Roger, my boy," he began, "what do ye mean? What is all this about, anyhow? Ain't I got a right t' sell my land ef I want t'? 'N' ain't two thousand dollars a good price fer th' spring-glade?"
"No, sir! It is not!" burst out the boy. "That's just it. You've gone and bargained away land worth probably twenty times what you have agreed to sell it for."
"What's that? I guess ye don't know what ye're talkin' about, Roger."
"I guess I do," said Roger, stoutly, but not forgetting the deference due his uncle. "Look here!" and he held out a few of the white crystals.
"What's them?" asked Mr. Kimball.
"Rock salt."
"Rock salt. Wa'al, what of it? There's lots of it, out t' Syracuse."
"And there's lots of it on that land you've agreed to sell," exclaimed Roger. "That's what I went to the city for. That's what I've been following Mr. Ranquist and Mr. Dudley for. Uncle Bert, your farm, or part of it, anyhow, is right over a salt mine. I know this, though I can't say how big the mine is. But a man who knows something about such things believes it will be worth lots of money. That's why I tried to hurry home, to prevent you from signing the property away."
"Oh! Why didn't ye wait, Bert?" said Mrs. Kimball, in a sorrowful voice.
"Wa'al," spoke Mr. Kimball, in rather a husky tone, "I s'pose I ought t' hev, but how'd I know there was salt on my land? There ain't never been no evidences of it. How d'ye know there is?" turning suddenly to Roger.