“I’m satisfied now,” said Andy. “You pay me the five hundred down, and the place is yours.”
The man cast a cool glance at the house and barn and the white fowl strutting before them. “Well—if you really want to sell—” He drew the roll from his pocket and counted out the bills slowly, handing them to Andy with careless gesture.
Andy’s hand closed about them spasmodically and he looked down at them with half-open mouth and grinned a little.
“Now, if you ’ll sign the receipt—” The man drew a fountain pen from his pocket and wrote a few lines rapidly. “There you are. Sign here, please.”
Andy’s fingers found the place and rubbed it a little and traced his name slowly. He looked at the crumpled bills, and a deep smile filled his face. “Harr’et will be pleased!” he said.
“That’s good!” The real-estate man beamed on him benignantly. “Tomorrow we will draw up the papers, and you can look about you for a place. You ’ll find something to suit, and I sha ’n’t hurry you—Take your time.” He moved off slowly, waving his hands in a kind of real-estate benediction, and Andy stared after him, entranced.
“Oh, by the way—” The man came back. “I wouldn’t say anything about it if I were you—not for a while. There are always people ready to make trouble—and you ’ll be able to buy cheaper if they don’t know you’ve got to buy.” He beamed on him. “Of course, if you have to tell your wife—?”
“I don’t have to,” blurted Andy.
“All the better—all the better. The fewer women know things, the better.” The man smiled genially, and his light, smooth steps bore him away—out of Andy’s sight.
When he had disappeared, Andy looked down at the bills. He drew out from his coat a large rumpled handkerchief and tied the bills skillfully in one corner and thrust it back into his pocket. Then he walked, with firm step, past the darkened window, into the house.