“The same there.”
“Them’s a nice lot of macheats. How do they come?”
“An ounce apiece. Or fifty pound of leaf.”
“Steep. Let’s see one. A good trade knife.”
“What are you doing now?”
“I got about fifty acres burned off. That’s the grant here, Lion, fifty acres. Tobacco, you know. I do a bit of fishing, whiles. A nice handy sloop, I got. Small, of course.”
“Crops good?”
“A sight too good, if you ask me. This black soil’ll sprout a coffin. But tobacco’s away down. We burn half our crops, trying to keep up prices. It’s only worth about ninepence.”
“Are you going to stick at it?”
“It’s a bit quiet. I lie out in the woods whiles.”