“Get possession of him, and if I don't buy land here I'll take him West with me,” said Murrell quietly. Bladen gave him a swift, shrewd glance, but Murrell, smiling and easy, met it frankly. “Come,” he said, “it's a pity he should grow up wild in the pine woods—get him away from Yancy—I am' willing to spend five hundred dollars on this if necessary.”
“As a matter of sentiment?”
“As a matter of sentiment.”
Bladen considered. He was not averse to making five hundred dollars, but he was decidedly averse to letting slip any chance to secure a larger sum. It flashed in upon him that Murrell had uncovered the real purpose of his visit to North Carolina; his interest in land had been merely a subterfuge.
“Well?” said Murrell.
“I'll have to think your proposition over,” said Bladen.
The immediate result of this conversation was that within twenty-four hours a man driving two horses hitched to a light buggy arrived at Scratch Hill in quest of Bob Yancy, whom he found at dinner and to whom he delivered a letter. Mr. Yancy was profoundly impressed by the attention, for holding the letter at arm's length, he said,
“Well, sir, I've lived nigh on to forty years, but I never got a piece of writing befo'—never, sir. People, if they was close by, spoke to me, if at a distance they hollered, but none of 'em ever wrote.” After gazing at the written characters with satisfaction Mr. Yancy made a taper of the letter and lit his pipe, which he puffed meditatively. “Sonny, when you grow up you must learn so you can send writings to yo' Uncle Bob fo' him to light his pipe with.”
“What was in the paper, Uncle Bob?” asked Hannibal.
“Writin',” said Mr. Yancy, and smoked.