A faint smile touched Michael's mouth.
"I'm only asking," Armitage remarked apologetically. "I can tell you, boys, it's a pretty bitter thing for me to be out of the running for a stone like this. I ain't even bidding, you see—just inquiring, that's all."
Michael looked at Potch.
"Well," he said, "it's Potch's first bit of luck, and I reck'n he's got the say about it."
The old man looked at Potch. He was a good judge of character. His chance of getting the stone from Michael was remote; from Potch—a steady, flat look in the eyes, a stolidity and inflexibility about the young man, did hot give Dawe Armitage much hope where he was concerned either.
"They tell me," Mr. Armitage said, the twinkling of a smile in his eyes as he realised the metal of his adversary—"they tell me," he repeated, "you've refused three hundred pounds for her?"
"That's right," Potch said.
"How much do you reck'n she's worth?"
"I don't know."
"How much have you got on her?"