“He’s a farmer from the Prairies––so I mean to land him. They are the kind that ha’e the bawbees!”
“Have the what?” asked Phil; for despite his long contact with Jim, the latter was constantly springing a Scotticism on him that he had not heard before.
“Bawbee, man!––sillar,––ha’pennies,––one cent pieces!”
“A fat lot of good one cent pieces will do when it comes to buying a ranch in British Columbia.”
Jim threw up his hands at Phil’s apparent lack of wit, 335 then he laughed and rushed across the road for a bite of lunch at a small restaurant.
He was back in a few minutes and before his prairie farmer returned.
Jim introduced the farmer to his partner as “Mr. Phil Ralston, one of the most shrewd financial men in the West,” loaded him up with cigars, then got him into his Catteline-Harvard, drove him slowly past every other real-estate office in town, then out into the country. He took so long on that trip that Phil was on the point of closing up for the day ere he returned.
He was bubbling over with excitement and perspiring freely. He clapped Phil on the back, then sat down with a show of collapse.
“Come on! Tell me all about it, you clam.”
“Great Scot!” said Jim, “and they say that it is a ‘lotus eater’s’ job selling real-estate. I’ve shown that hard-headed old son-of-a-gun nine ranches this afternoon. I’ve talked climate, position, irrigation, soil, seed and production for six solid hours. I would rather write a ‘dime novel’ every day in my life, than this.” He mopped his brow. “It is a great life if you stay with it!”