“I understand that, Mr. Dameron. It is pretty well understood in Mariona that Mr. Dameron rarely sells real estate. That’s quite in keeping with my own ideas.”
Balcomb rested one of his highly polished shoes on a round of the chair and smiled agreeably at Ezra Dameron.
“You flatter me,” said the old man, dryly. “May I ask who sent you here?”
“Certainly, sir. I represent no one but myself. I never employ agents. I prefer to do business at first hand.”
“Then I’m sure your business is well cared for,” said Dameron.
Balcomb grinned respectfully at the old man’s irony.
“I am fairly prosperous,” he said, and Dameron looked him over again. The market had been uncertain for several days. The bears had been making a raid, and he had lost some money,—not very much, to be sure,—but still the steady gains of several prosperous weeks had been wiped out. But he was confident of a reaction. He had of late paid little attention to the property which Balcomb had mentioned, and his thoughts turned upon it.
“Have you ever been here before?”
“No, sir.”
“What do you want with that property?”