They got out of the machine and waded through dusty grass, searching for surveyor's posts. Nichols pointed out the luxuriant growth of wild hay, asked MacAdams what he thought of that, continued without a pause to pour facts and figures upon him, heedless that he received no reply. They got into the car again and Nichols, pulling a pad of blanks from his pocket, tried to make MacAdams buy a certain piece of land then and there. He attacked obliquely, as if expecting to trap MacAdams into signing his name, and MacAdams answered as warily. "Well, I have seen worse. And I have seen better." He lighted his pipe and listened equably. He did not sign his name.
They drove further down the road and got out again. Helen caught Nichols' sleeve, and though he shook his arm impatiently she held him until MacAdams had walked some distance away and picked up a lump of soil.
"Leave him to me, please," she said.
"What do you know about the tract?"
"Just the same, I wish you'd give me a chance, please."
"Do you want to sell him or don't you? I know how to handle prospects."
They spoke quickly. Already MacAdams was turning his head.
"He's my prospect. And, by God! I'm going to sell him or lose him myself!" Her words shocked her like a thunderclap, but the shock steadied her. And Nichols' overthrow was complete. He said hardly a word when they reached MacAdams.
Almost in silence they examined that piece of land. MacAdams walked to each of its corners; he looked at the map for some time; he asked questions that Nichols answered briefly. He pulled up clumps of grass and looked at the earth on their roots. At last he walked back to the machine and leaned against it, lighting his pipe leisurely and looking out across the tract. The silence was palpitant. When she saw that he did not mean to break it, Helen asked, "Shall we look at another piece?"
"No. I've seen enough."