The old man pointed north with his pipe-stem. He dangled the faded handkerchief.
“You travel about much this way?”
“All over, boss.” The old man’s hands began to refold the red handkerchief.
“Stop!” said Harvey, suddenly. “I want to buy that.”
“Ver’ nice handkerchief.”
A silver coin changed hands. The old man shook the ashes from his pipe into his palm, and scattered them to the winds. He began to strap his basket.
“You haven’t,” said Harvey, slowly—“you haven’t got any more—houses and gardens in there?”
The quick glance of the black eyes was wary.
“This,” went on Harvey, indicating the house behind him, the finest in Lobelia—“this here came out of a basket like that.”
The old face creased slowly into a hundred doubtful wrinkles. With a gesture that said, “That may be a good joke, but it’s beyond me,” the pedlar went on covering his basket. Harvey was beset by a fear that the old man would yet slip out of his hold.