“If you’re not afraid of the June-bugs, we’ll stay here,” said Zelda, when she and Olive had shaken hands with the men.
“There’s nothing better; it’s the center of the universe right here,” Balcomb declared. “I brought some poison for the June-bugs with me. I will place it on yonder rail, lest we forget, lest we forget.”
This was Balcomb’s happy idea of minimizing the value of his gift. He was relieved to find that Pollock was not there, and as it was past the usual calling hour in the latitude and longitude of Mariona, the army officer was not likely to appear. Ever since the unpleasant incident on the stairway at the Athenæum building, Balcomb had been in the undignified attitude of dodging Captain Pollock, though he had said, during Pollock’s absence from town, exceedingly cruel things about the officer.
Mr. Dameron came out and shook hands with the young men, addressing a few words to each. Balcomb had called upon him repeatedly in reference to the purchase of the tract of land on the creek, but without encouragement. Dameron had just been wondering how he could communicate with the promoter without seeking him directly, and this call gave him an opportunity.
“By the way, Mr. Balcomb,” said the old man, pleasantly, “sometime when you are passing, I’d be glad if you’d call at my office. There’s a matter of mutual interest that I’d like to speak to you about. A beautiful night, gentlemen. Very much cooler here than in the city, as you may have noticed.” And he went down the steps and out upon the highway for his usual evening walk.
“A remarkable man, your father, Miss Dameron. He’s quite the ideal business man of the old school,” said Balcomb. “We youngsters are quicker on the trigger, but our aim isn’t so sure. No siree; your father is an ideal business man.”
He had spoken impressively. He would, in his own language, “make himself solid” when he had a chance. Leighton was talking to Olive, and Balcomb set about entertaining Zelda, with whom he had seldom enjoyed a tête-à-tête.
“This is one of my ideas,—to own a farm. It’s in the blood, I guess. My people were all farmers,—not, I hope, in the sense of our slang usage,—ahem!—but tillers of the soil. I don’t know that any of my people ever came out of the green, green wood to buy the green, green goods—you know how those old ballads run—we studied ’em at college—but I guess I’d be pretty hard to catch. Yes, a country place is the right thing. You must have a hundred acres here. Well, old Bill Thompson couldn’t swing it. He went crazy on fancy cattle and blew his money on ’em hard. A man’s got to make his pile in town before he can go in for fancy stock. You know what Senator Proctor, of Vermont, said to his guests,—a lot of swells from Washington. ‘Champagne or milk,’ he said at table, at his farm up in the Green Mountain state. ‘Champagne or milk, take your choice, gentlemen; one costs me just as much as the other.’ I have a number of city friends who sport country places,—estates, I ought to say, and they tell me a farm eats up money like a strawstacker. But the idea is immense. Getting back to nature,—that’s me all over.”
He ran on monotonously. He was anxious to make an impression at once without relinquishing the floor.
“I suppose you and Miss Merriam do a lot of reading out here. What are the books one ought to talk about?”