I took the bottle of well water from my pocket, and extended it toward him. “Here,” I said, “there’s no need for me to have this analyzed.”
“Seven?” said he.
“Four!” said I.
“Six?” said he.
“Not a cent over four,” said I.
“All right,” said he, “didn’t much want ter sell anyhow.” And he pocketed the bottle.
I climbed into the car, and the professor walked in front and cranked it. (It had a self-starter, which was, as they usually appear to be, out of commission.) The engine began to throb. The professor put on his gloves.
“Five,” said Milt, “with the hoss an’ two Jerseys an’ all the wood in the shed.”
He was standing in the road beside the modern motor car, a pathetic old figure to me, so like my grandfather in many ways, the last of an ancient order. Poverty, decay, was written on him, as on his farmstead.
“It’s yours!” I cried.