"Poor Philip......once stepped......toad......quite ill."
"Henry......so thoughtful......do anything......make me happy."
"Yes......kindest husband......so much sense......Philip different......wouldn't listen......about farm."
"Mr. Fairman......devoted......be happy......do anything."
"Oh, Marion!......think I'm......old goose."
I know when a conversation becomes confidential, and I quietly retreated without hearing anything further except some indistinct murmuring and happy sobs.
From the day my bank account was increased by the sum of five thousand dollars I made up my mind to spend it all, if necessary, in the purchase of Waydean. I exulted in the anticipation of Marion's delight and amazement on finding that I had preferred to do this in place of frittering it away in luxuries that we could do without, or investing it in stocks. I almost wished her birthday was at hand so that I could celebrate the day by making her a present of the place; then the idea of giving it to her on Aunt Sophy's wedding-day entered my mind, and this seemed such a capital plan that I decided to carry it out. Few men, I meditated, would have thought of such a graceful acknowledgment of Aunt Sophy's kindness, and I felt that Marion would be doubly pleased that I should think of adding to the joy of the eventful day. I could not help wondering what my wife intended doing with her money, but she didn't say anything to enlighten me, and I took good care not to allude to it, for fear she should question me in return. She made frequent trips to the city, carrying her little bank-book with an air of importance, but I could see nothing in the results of her shopping to indicate lavish expenditure. For instance, on one trip she bought a wire potato masher for seven cents, a spice cabinet for thirty cents, sixty cents worth of trimming for an old hat, and a pair of silk suspenders for me. The price mark on the latter was carefully obliterated, being a present, so I couldn't tell what they cost; anyway, it wouldn't have been proper to look at the price, if it had been legible. Evidently, at that rate of spending she would have enough money left to stock the farm when it became hers.
The real estate agent whom I consulted smiled loftily when I alluded to Peter Waydean's reputation for shrewdness and overreaching. "Don't concern yourself about that, Mr. Carton," he said. "We business men are accustomed to deal with these close-fisted farmers. They usually know the value of a farm as well as we do, but we know how to get them down to the bottom figure. We don't run after the owner and let him think we're anxious to buy; we approach him in the most incidental manner, dangling the bait, so to speak, until he's afraid someone else is going to snap it up. Now, the Waydean farm I take to be worth about thirty-five hundred, and you say the old man talks of selling, so if you allow a margin of a hundred or two I think I can secure it without any trouble."
The calm confidence of Mr. Brooks elated me; after telling him he might go as high as four thousand dollars, I went home, calculating on the way how I would spend the remaining thousand that I would still have to the good.
A week later Brooks shook his head as I entered his office. "We haven't quite got that deal through, Mr. Carton," he said. "The fact is that there seems to be a snag. Old man appears willing to sell—quite genial and all that, but when it comes to figures he fights shy; says he wants more time to think. To hurry him up I made a straight offer of four thousand. I could see that he was inclined to gobble it, but he held back, and when I went out yesterday I discovered why. Ever hear of that being a likely spot for oil or gas?"