“You must not be cast down, my friend,” said my father, “you are not the only person who has been taken in in the same manner. There is however, no lack of first-rate localities in the country, both for cities and towns, or of arable and pasture land. It will be a lesson to all of us not to purchase property until we have visited the spot and ascertained its value.”
“I’m half inclined to go back to ould Ireland, where, although a landlord gets shot now and then, and the people are not always as peaceable as might be desired, honest labourers can be obtained for money, if not for love, and the land is free from the curse of slavery. If, however, I could find an estate in tolerably good order, such as yours for instance, I would become the purchaser, and settle down in this new world of yours. The dollars paid to Mr Chouse are lost, but I have still enough money left to buy and cultivate a fair-sized property.”
“Are you in earnest, Mr McDermont?” asked my father; “if you are, and would like to buy Uphill, I will consider the matter. I had no thoughts of leaving the place, but circumstances may occur which might induce me to part with it.”
“Never was more in earnest in my life,” said our guest. “I should have wished to be your neighbour rather than your successor, but if you have a mind to sell, I am ready to buy.”
My father and Uncle Denis talked the matter over. To our surprise, my uncle said that he had had an offer for his farm and had made up his mind to accept it, and that if we moved west he would accompany us. My mother, however was very unwilling to leave Uphill. We had all been born there, and she and all of us were attached to the place.
Mr McDermont appeared to be in no great hurry, and told my father that he would give him a week to decide.
That very evening as we were sitting down to supper, a knock was heard at the door, which was kept barred and bolted since the visit from the Kentuckians. My father, thinking that they had possibly returned, got up, and, taking his rifle in his hand, went to the door.
“Who knocks?” he asked.
“Mark Tidey,” was the answer. “Quick, quick, let me in.”
My father, recognising our tutor’s voice, withdrew the bolts. Mr Tidey entered, looking pale and thoroughly knocked up, his dress torn and bespattered with mud.