"There's a red spider crawling up your left pant-leg."
Easton sat up and with a nervous motion shook the bottoms of his trousers. Then he glanced at his persecutor, who was just now gazing reflectively over the smooth waters of the lake, which showed between the foliage of the trees.
"Sir," said the old man, in a voice trembling with emotion, as he dusted the sand from his clothes and once more mounted the steps of the porch, "you are a cold-blooded brute!"
"I know," acknowledged Jarrod. "But I'm not as bad as I used to be. Ask my wife. She'll tell you I haven't knocked her down and stamped on her in over a month."
Easton sighed. He must change his tactics, evidently.
"I take it," he remarked, in a mournful voice, "that this is a business matter."
"You should have taken it that way before," said Jarrod.
Easton brightened.
"Of course," he rejoined. "How careless of me! But now, I trust, we understand each other. How much, Mr. Jarrod?"
"Eh?"