“Here it is, Mr. Baker.” Floyd entered with a map and pencil in his hand. “If you looked the place over when you were there, you may remember that the creek winds round from the bridge to the foot of the hill. Well, right in there—”
“I know, and that's dandy land, Mr. Floyd,” Pole broke in. “That's as good as you got, I reckon.”
“The very best, Mr. Baker—in fact, it's the part I always rent for cash. I have to have ready money for taxes and interest and the like, you know, and when I strike a man who is able to pay in advance, why, I can make him a reasonable figure, and he gets the best.”
“It's got a good house on it, too, I believe?” Pole was stroking his chin with a thoughtful air.
“Six rooms, and a well and stable and good cow-house, Mr. Baker.” Old Floyd was actually beaming.
“Does the roof leak?” Pole looked at him frankly. “I won't take my wife and children into a leaky house, Mr. Floyd. If I pay out my money, I want ordinary comfort.”
“Doesn't leak a drop, Mr. Baker.”
Pole stroked his chin for another minute. He was looking down at the worn carpet, but he felt Floyd's eyes fastened eagerly on him.
“Well, what's yore figure, Mr. Floyd?”
“Two hundred dollars a year—half when you move in, and the rest a month later.” The old man seemed to hold his breath. The paper which he was folding quivered.