"This is a great place you have here, Mr. Ogre," he remarked, sipping his coffee slowly. "Of course, it isn't quite as rich and fertile as my own little place up in Vermont, and your cattle, though evidently of fine breed, are hardly what Montana ranch-men would consider first class. Still—"
The ogre stopped eating and looked at the speaker with considerable surprise.
"You mean to say you can beat this place of mine anywhere?" he demanded.
"Well," said Jack, amiably, "of course I don't mean to criticise this beautiful country. It is very beautiful in its own way, and there is some evidence of wealth here. I was only saying that next to my place it comes pretty near to being the finest I ever saw."
"I guess you'd go a good many miles before you'd see a castle like mine," said the ogre, with a proud glance around him.
"I haven't seen your castle yet, sir," said Jack. "But this little bungalow we are in strikes me as about as cute and comfy a cozy-corner as I've visited in a month of Sundays."
"Bungalow?" roared the giant. "You don't call this a bungalow, do you?"
"Why, yes," said Jack. "It certainly isn't a tent, or a chicken-coop, or a tool-house, is it? It's mighty comfy anyhow, whatever you call it. I wouldn't mind owning it myself."
A glitter came into the ogre's eyes. If this young man were merely bluffing now was the time to call him.
"Oh, as for that," said the ogre, with a sarcastic laugh, "you can own it—that is, you can if you can pay for it. I'll sell."