“You say you know this Italian, Bob—er—let me see, I put his name down somewhere—Pietro Margolis, he calls himself.”
“Well, I don’t exactly know him, Judge Weston, but I’ve seen him around town a lot. He’s staying at the Railroad House. I first saw him at the log cabin of Hiram Beegle, right after the robbery. He walked down the road playing his wheezy old organ and showing off his monkey’s tricks.”
“Yes, that’s what he came to see me about,” said the lawyer. “It was his monkey. It seems the animal must have a certain kind of food, and it doesn’t grow in this country. So this Margolis wanted to buy a piece of land and plant the peanuts or whatever it is that monkeys eat. I know he doesn’t want to plant peanuts, though I know monkeys eat them, but I use peanuts for an illustration. He told me the name of the nut, or fruit or whatever it was he intended to plant, but I’ve forgotten.”
“And he wants to buy land for that purpose?” exclaimed Bob. “Why, it’s too late to plant anything now. It might not be in the tropics, where monkeys come from, but here——”
“Oh, he doesn’t intend to start planting until spring,” said the lawyer. “He just wants to get the land now.”
“But you aren’t a real estate agent,” said Bob. “Why didn’t he go to Mr. Landry for what he wanted?”
“I suppose he came to me because he happened to learn that I controlled the very piece of land he wanted to rent, or buy,” said the judge.
“Some of your property?”
“No, Bob. Some that belongs to the estate of old Hank Denby. You see, I’m executor of Hank’s will, and there are several pieces of land to dispose of.”
“Yes, I heard he left quite a little,” admitted Bob. “He was pretty well off, even if he didn’t use all the pirate gold he dug up at the South Sea islands.”