"Oh, you admit there is some question about it, after all?"
"Are you trying to pump me, Terrill?" asked Ralph, shrewdly suspicious. "If you are, you won't get any satisfaction until I've seen our lawyer. It seems to me you're playing detective instead of surveyor, and you don't do it very well! You had better stick to your job, and the axe!"
Terrill grinned.
"If it turns out that your pa made some mistake or was—-er—-too cock-sure about the lay o' this land, what d'you think Old Man Perkins would do about it?" he inquired meaningly.
"Prove his claim, and take part of our present farm away from us, of course," Ralph retorted. "But there is no mistake. The land is ours."
"And if it is, would you be willing to sell——"
"Not a square foot of it—-to Perkins."
So saying, Ralph picked up his cap, and carefully brushed off the clay and leaves. As he did so, the shining feather caught his downcast eyes once more, and this time he stooped, picked it up, and deliberately stuck it under the band of the inside of his cap. Then he secured the faithful Keno, and, without another word to Bill Terrill, who had moved away whistling defiantly, he tramped homeward, in a rather gloomy mood.