Dameron raised his eyes and looked Balcomb over carefully. Jack Balcomb was undeniably a presentable young man, as he stood with his head bent deferentially, holding his hat and glove in one hand. If he was not a collector or a book agent, he probably wished to borrow money. Just now Ezra Dameron had no money to lend.
“My time is much taken, but I have never found it profitable to defer interviews. What is it you want?”
A chair stood near Dameron’s desk, but it was covered with papers, and he made no effort to clear it for his caller. It was, in fact, one of Dameron’s rules never to ask callers to sit down. Most of his visitors came with tales of woe, and he had found that people in trouble are voluble.
“My business is serious,” said Balcomb, imperturbably, “and I should not like to take it up when you are busy.”
“We will take it up now or not at all.”
The old man was still bent over the table with his pencil poised in his hand. His glasses were pinched low down on his long thin nose, and he looked over them at Balcomb very coldly.
“I don’t want you to be in haste in considering—”
“You needn’t trouble yourself. There will be no delay whatever. It is my practice, sir, to pass on questions as they rise.” And Dameron tapped the table impatiently with his pencil.
“Very well,” said Balcomb, smiling amiably. “I wish to know whether you will put a price on that piece of ground you own on High Street near the creek. I have a description in my pocket, if you care to refresh your memory.”
“I know the piece perfectly. It is not for sale.”