The big man was smiling broadly at Bert. It would have been rude to laugh outright; besides, that would have necessitated the removal from his mouth of the freshly-lighted cigar. This enormous man had sold machinery for almost twenty years; then had collected for it, finally becoming an inspector. But he wasn't cold-hearted. He had too much fat round his heart for that. After recovering from a fit of asthmatic coughing, which he presently indulged in, he said, kindly enough: "What you boys want is a walking plough, a set of drag harrows, and a disk. Even if you go in for ranching"--and his smile broke out afresh, spreading along a couple of deep grooves to the back of his neck--"you'll want them things." "Here's the plough you want," interjected a thin, wiry, though round-shouldered man, evidently the agent in person, who had just that minute sold a blue-and-red disk to a party of pink-cheeked colonists driving a team of black oxen hitched to a vividly green wagon with a white schooner-top. The agent grasped the long, conveniently-placed handles of a combination walking plough, bore down on them, which seemed much easier than raising them, besides being more graceful, and went on: "Best plough in the world. Fourteen-inch; fin coulter--better not try a rolling coulter where you boys is going; two shares; two moldboards; two spanners; thirty-five dollars," and he continued tilting the plough up and down, causing the draw-link to tinkle musically. "Dandy plough," said the ponderous inspector. "Use nothing else on my farms for breaking an' backsetting." Had he explained that he used one as an anchor for his private yacht, the information would have enlightened Bert quite as much. "Don't need a man to hold it," echoed the agent, still clinging fondly to the long handles. "Light draft; two fourteen-hundred-pound horses can draw it easy." "Just right for light land," added the inspector, as he carefully tested and then lowered himself on to the pole of an adjacent seeder, causing it to bend like a cane. "What sort of land is it where this Colony is headin' for, anyway?" "Heavy stuff," returned the agent, miss-cuing; "grass up to your knees. I was down in that country last fall--hunting a bunch of my stray cayuses." "Couldn't be beat for that clay land," volunteered the inspector, wiping the inside of his whitish collar with a whitish pocket-handkerchief. The agent threw an affectionate look at the plough in endorsation of his chief's revised statement. "I once turned three acres over with one of them ploughs in nine hours," he said; "with a pair of broncs you could carry under your arms." "And you know old man Cleviss, Fred, down on the coulee?" said the inspector, who still had some breath left. Fred nodded. "He says he wouldn't sell his plough for a million dollars if he couldn't buy another like it."