“They might have let me in on the deal,” he grumbled. “The land was mine. S’pose it had been gold they found. Wouldn’t it be swindling to make me sell it dirt cheap just because I didn’t know what ’twas worth?”
His neighbors told him he mustn’t expect any better treatment in a business deal.
“But,” he argued, “they sprung the preacher on me, made me believe there was to be a school there. Ain’t that false pretenses? You bet ’tis! An’ ef ever I git my hands on that preacher I’ll make him suffer!”
He hadn’t had his hands on the Reverend Elijah Judson, but he had made him suffer, just the same.
“I hate to be called a swindler,” sighed the clergyman, as he stood there with Claymore.
“Mr. Judson,” responded Claymore, “business is business, and the man who gets left in a trade is always sore. That’s all there is to it, and you mustn’t think anything more about it.”
“Well,” said Mr. Judson, “I’ll try to think it’s all right, but if I should find that any wrong has been done I shall insist on making things right with Low.”
There was a sneering expression on Claymore’s face, but he said nothing, and they returned to the city.
Mr. Judson found new trouble there. He met one of his old church members on the street, and shook hands with him.
“I didn’t know you were in this part of the country, Mr. Folsom,” said the clergyman.