The real-estate man’s hand reached to his pocket and found something and drew it out, slowly. Andy’s eyes rested on it, fascinated. The man seemed to hesitate. He looked down at the roll in his hand, and half returned it to his pocket. Then he looked again, doubtfully, at the house and barn and chicken-coop. He had turned his back on the right of way and the horizon line above them. “I’ll tell you how it is, Mr. Halloran—” His voice was frankly confidential—“I have taken a liking to your place and I’d be willing to pay a little more for it than for some place I didn’t fancy. I’m made like that.” He expanded a little. “Now, value for value, Gruchy’s place is worth twice what yours is—and I know it.” He looked at him narrowly. “But I’m going to offer you a thousand dollars—five hundred down and five hundred the first of the month—if you want to close now.” He fingered the bills a little. Andy’s eyes grew round. “I’ll have to ask Harr’et,” he said. “She ain’t very well.” He glanced toward a darkened window at the rear of the house—“She’s havin’ neuralgia—off and on—I wouldn’t want to ask her when she has it. She has a bad spell today.” He shook his head. The other looked at him sympathetically. “I have to go to-night—and I couldn’t be sure I’d want to offer a thousand in the morning—even if I stayed—not if I came across something I like better.” He returned the bills decisively to his pocket. Andy’s glance followed them. “I don’t really need to ask her.” His glance flickered. “She’s said, time and again, she ’d be glad if I’d sell. She comes from northeast of Digby. I reckon she ’d like to go back.” “Digby’s a fine place,” said the man. “Well, good day, Mr. Halloran. I’m glad to have met you.” He held out a round hand. Andy took it without enthusiasm. “I do ’no’ but I might as well sell,” he said feebly. The other waved it away. “Don’t think of it—not without your wife’s consent—not if you’re accustomed to doing what she tells you.” “I ain’t,” said Andy indignantly. “Of course not—I only meant that you ’d be better satisfied—” “I’m satisfied now,” said Andy. “You pay me the five hundred down, and the place is yours.” The man cast a cool glance at the house and barn and the white fowl strutting before them. “Well—if you really want to sell—” He drew the roll from his pocket and counted out the bills slowly, handing them to Andy with careless gesture. Andy’s hand closed about them spasmodically and he looked down at them with half-open mouth and grinned a little. “Now, if you ’ll sign the receipt—” The man drew a fountain pen from his pocket and wrote a few lines rapidly. “There you are. Sign here, please.” Andy’s fingers found the place and rubbed it a little and traced his name slowly. He looked at the crumpled bills, and a deep smile filled his face. “Harr’et will be pleased!” he said.