“Do you own all this land about here?” he inquired.
“’Bout seventy acres,” returned Mrs. Queeder.
“Do you know what it sells at an acre?”
“No. It ain’t wuth much, though, I reckon. I ain’t heerd o’ none bein’ sold aroun’ hyur fer some time now.”
The prospector involuntarily twitched at the words “not wuth much.” What would some of his friends and rivals say if they knew of this particular spot? What if some one should tell these people? If he could buy it now for a song, as he well might! Already other prospectors were in the neighborhood. Had he not eaten at the same table at Arno with three whom he suspected as such? He must get this, and get it now.
“I guess I’ll stroll over and talk to your husband a moment,” he remarked and ambled off, the while Mrs. Queeder and Jane, the twain in loose blue gingham bags of dresses much blown by the wind, stood in the tumbledown doorway and looked after him.
“Funny, ain’t he?” said the daughter. “Wonder whut he wants o’ Paw?”
Old Queeder looked up quizzically from his ploughing, to which he had returned, as he saw the stranger approaching, and now surveyed him doubtfully as he offered a cheery “Good morning.”
“Do you happen to know if there is any really good farming land around here for sale?” inquired the prospector after a few delaying comments about the weather.
“Air yuh wantin’ it fer farmin’?” replied Queeder cynically and casting a searching look upon the newcomer, who saw at once by Queeder’s eye that he knew more than his wife. “They’re buyin’ hit now mostly fer the min’l ez is onto it, ez I hyur.” At the same time he perked like a bird to see how this thrust had been received.