“Yes; bought the lot. The timber is three hundred years old; hard as iron. And conceive what the bark must be when the timber is so good.”
“I doubt if we shall come to terms over that.”
“Why not? You won’t have another chance. What will you give me a ton?”
“Is the bark running now? It is full early. The sap don’t begin to rise so soon as this,--leastways, not in timber trees,--and the moor is always three weeks or a month behind the Hams.”
“The bark will be all right, if you will buy. What is the market price?”
“Best bark has been up to seven guineas, but it’s not that now. Five guineas is an outside price for thirty-year-old coppice.”
“But Brimpts is not coppice--far from it.”
“I know, and the value will be according. Sapling, of some forty years, comes second, at four guineas; then last quality is timber-bark, if not too old, say three pound ten.”
“Three pound ten?” echoed Pepperill. “A pretty price, indeed. You do not understand. Brimpts oaks must be three hundred years old, and so worth seven guineas a ton.”
“I won’t give three guineas for this bark. Take off a pound for every hundred years. If I take it, I don’t mind two guineas.”