Truscott's smile was crafty. And, even with the drink in him, Mansell saw and understood it.
"Monkey tricks?" he said.
"Monkey tricks—if you like."
Mansell looked over at the bottle.
"Hand us another horn of that pizen an' I'll listen," he said.
The other poured out the brandy readily, taking care to be more than liberal. He watched the sawyer drink, and then, drawing a chair forward, he sat down.
"What's that old mill of mine worth?" he asked suddenly.
They exchanged glances silently. Truscott was watching the effect of his question, and the other was trying to fathom the meaning of it.
"I'd say," Mansell replied slowly, giving up the puzzle and waiting for enlightenment—"I'd say, to a man who needs it bad, it's worth anything over fifteen thousand dollars. Fer scrappin', I'd say it warn't worth but fi' thousand."
"I was thinking of a man needing it."