The real-estate man’s little eyes scanned it. “You haven’t much land,” he said casually.
“I own to the top—pretty near an acre,” said Andy. “And there’s the house and barn—and the chicken-coop.” He cast an eye toward it.
A white fowl emerged and scurried across in front of them.
The man’s small eyes followed her, without interest. “I found a number of houses down in the village,” he said smoothly, in his flat voice, “and plenty of land—Almost any of them will sell, I fancy.”
“Yes, they ’ll sell.” Andy’s eye was gloomy. “‘Most anybody around here ’ll sell—except William,” he added thoughtfully.
The narrow eye turned on him. “How much did you say you sold to him?”
“‘Bout four hundred acre, I reckon,” said Andy.
“Five hundred dollars is what he paid you, I believe?” The man’s voice was smooth, and patient.
Andy wriggled a little. “‘Twa ’n’t enough,” he said feebly.
“Well—I don’t know—” The man glanced about him, “I was looking at a house down in the village this morning—eight rooms—good roof—ten acres of land, and barn. I can have the whole thing for six hundred.”