“Now, if you’re ready.”
“Ef I’m ready? Wal, I reckon.”
“Boys,” said Prawle, “we must settle this thing right here now. Got a pencil and paper?”
“I’ve got a fountain pen, which is better; and I’ll tear a blank page from my notebook,” said Jack Howard, quickly producing the articles from his pockets.
“What yer about now?” asked Sanders, regarding these preparations dubiously.
“I’m writing out a bill of sale for you to sign; then, I’ll hand you the $200,” said Prawle.
“Wal, I’ll sign it ef I kin; but I hain’t much at drivin’ a pen, pard,” said the animated scarecrow, slowly and doubtfully, as if he had very little confidence in his powers of chirography.
“Here you are,” said Prawle, jumping off his seat. “Come around to the back of the wagon, so you’ll have something to lean on.”
Jim Sanders dismounted from the sorry-looking nag, which looked as red-eyed and tired as himself, and moved with an uncertain kind of gait to the rear of the wagon.
Prawle put the bill of sale of the property, with the book under it, on the open end of their vehicle, and offered the fountain pen to Sanders.