“Say, there's nothing rash about that feller. When do you close?”
“Must close to-morrow night. He has a chance of another place.”
“Oh, he has, eh? Big rush on, eh? Well, don't you close until I see you some time to-morrow, partner.”
Mr. Sleighter scented another salvage deal, his keen eyes gleamed a bit, the firm lips were pressed a little more closely together.
“And say,” he said, turning back, “I don't wonder you can't do business. I couldn't do anything myself with a missis like yours. I couldn't get any smooth work over with her lookin' at me like that, durned if I could. Well, good-night; see you to-morrow.”
Mr. Sleighter spent the early hours of the following day among the farmers with whom his salvage deal had brought him into contact. The wrecker's instinct was strong in him, and besides he regarded with abhorrence the tactics of Mr. Martin and welcomed an opportunity to beat that gentleman at his own game. He could easily outbid the Martin offer and still buy the farm at a low price. As a result of his inquiries he had made up his mind that the land was worth at the very least eighty dollars an acre and the buildings at least two thousand more. Five thousand would be a ridiculously low figure and six thousand not extravagantly high for both buildings and farm. The farm with the store and machine business attached might offer a fair opening to his son, who was already weary of school and anxious to engage in business for himself.
“Guess I'll take a whirl out of the old boy,” he said to himself. “He's a durn fool anyway and if I don't get his money some one else will.”
In the afternoon he made his way to the store. “Boss ain't in?” he inquired of the clerk.
“No, he's at the house, I guess.”
“Back soon?”