“Oh, you did? That's good.” Perkins's eyes fluttered once or twice before his gaze steadied itself on the face of the man before him. “Well, as I told you, Mr. Bishop, that sort of a thing is a good investment. I reckon it's already climbing up a little, ain't it?”
“Not much yet.” It struck Bishop that he had given the lawyer a splendid opportunity to speak of the chief cause for an advance in value, and his heart felt heavier as he finished. “But I took quite a slice the last time—five thousand acres at the old figure, you know—a dollar a acre.”
“You don't say! That was a slice.”
Bishop drew himself up in his chair and inhaled a deep breath. It was as if he took into himself in that way the courage to make his next remark.
“I got it from the Tompkins estate.”
“You don't say. I didn't know they had that much on hand.”
There was a certain skill displayed in the lawyer's choice of questions and observations that somehow held him aloof from the unlettered man, and there was, too, something in his easy, bland manner that defied the open charge of underhand dealing, and yet Bishop had not paid out his railroad fare for nothing. He was not going back to his home-circle no wiser than when he left it. His next remark surprised himself; it was bluntness hardened by despair.
“Sence I bought the land I've accidentally heerd that you are some kin o' that family.”
Perkins started slightly and raised his brows.
“Oh yes; on my wife's side, away off, some way or other. I believe the original Tompkins that settled there from Virginia was my wife's grandfather. I never was much of a hand to go into such matters.”