"Did he tell you it was mortgaged to me for more'n it's worth?"
"No, he didn't."
"Did he make over any papers to you?"
"No."
"Wal, if it interests you I'll show you papers thet proves the property's mine."
Slone suffered a pang. The little home had grown dearer and dearer to him.
"All right, Bostil. If it's yours—it's yours," he said, calmly enough.
"I reckon I'd drove you out before this if I hadn't felt we could make a deal."
"We can't agree on any deal, Bostil," replied Slone, steadily. It was not what Bostil said, but the way he said it, the subtle meaning and power behind it, that gave Slone a sense of menace and peril. These he had been used to for years; he could meet them. But he was handicapped here because it seemed that, though he could meet Bostil face to face, he could not fight him. For he was Lucy's father. Slone's position, the impotence of it, rendered him less able to control his temper.
"Why can't we?" demanded Bostil. "If you wasn't so touchy we could. An' let me say, young feller, thet there's more reason now thet you DO make a deal with me."