"That would only make, besides the one hundred pounds cash, seven and a half pounds per annum. Such a fertile soil. Such a splendid stream. No well to dig. Hundreds of tomatoes weighing half-a-pound each. It's ridiculously low."
"It's time for me to part. Will you accept my price, Mr. Fallon, 'Yes' or 'No?'"
After much grumbling and protestations on the part of the farmer, with assertions that he would be ruined giving away his land like that, the transaction was agreed to.
Going home, Frank reviewed in his mind the state of his finance.
He possessed the house, garden, greenhouse and workshop, minus his step-mother's dowry, and plus five hundred pounds cash. "I cannot do much with that," he thought, "but I have enough to begin with."
And now where were his ambitious castles; where was the successful inventor, the possessor of hundreds of thousands—contemplating to build two span-roofed greenhouses in which he would have to work and perspire when the thermometer would often stand at from eighty to ninety degrees.
However, he was full of hope, his ambition had received a severe blow, but it still clung to him. He feared to aim too high now, and failures he dreaded. "I must begin at the bottom of the ladder," he said to himself, "and, with God's help, I shall succeed."
He resolved to work with his brains as well as with his hands. "I have some education," he thought, "and I will seize the opportunities as they present themselves. I do not care for riches now. If only I could succeed in securing enough money to put me out of the danger of want, I should be satisfied."
Since his adventure in the garden, he had not dared to go again near "Les Marches."
He thought that Mr. Rougeant had perhaps recognised him, but, fortunately for him, Adèle's father had failed to discern his crouching figure.