He was not exactly seedy, though he certainly was not well dressed.
He was bent over, as if like Atlas he had been condemned to carry the world on his shoulders, but had forgotten to bring it along on this occasion.
But he had extremely bright eyes, which belied his other marks of age, and they peered out in a restive manner from under a pair of heavy, beetling brows.
“Take a seat, sir,” said Vance, pointing with his pen to a chair. “How can I serve you? Make your errand brief, for time with me is money.”
“Do you want to buy any corn?” asked the venerable visitor in a shrill, squeaky voice.
“How much have you for sale?” asked the boy carelessly.
“Six million bushels.”
“What!” ejaculated Vance, wheeling about in his chair and facing the old man.
“Six million bushels.”
“Is this a dream? I have no time for nonsense,” and Vance wondered if he was not up against a lunatic or a crank.