Pole's eyes twinkled as they rested on a pair of fine horses and glittering carriage that were passing. “Ef I rent _yore'n_, Mr. Floyd, I'll pay cash.” “Well, that certainly is the wisest plan, Mr. Baker.” There was a still greater show of life in the old man's face; in fact, he almost smiled. “Come inside a minute. I've got a map of my property, showing just how each section lies and how it's drained and watered.” He opened the door and led Pole into a wide hall, and thence, to the right, into a big, bare-looking parlor. “Have a seat, Mr. Baker; my desk is in the little room adjoining.” Pole sat down, crossed his long legs, and put his hat on his knee. When he found himself alone he smiled. “Captain Duncan thought a crabbed old cuss like that 'ud be interested in pore kin,” he mused. “Huh! nothin' short o' Vanderbilts an' Jay Goulds 'ud start his family pulse to beatin'. Le' me see, now, how I'd better begin to--” “Here it is, Mr. Baker.” Floyd entered with a map and pencil in his hand. “If you looked the place over when you were there, you may remember that the creek winds round from the bridge to the foot of the hill. Well, right in there--” “I know, and that's dandy land, Mr. Floyd,” Pole broke in. “That's as good as you got, I reckon.” “The very best, Mr. Baker--in fact, it's the part I always rent for cash. I have to have ready money for taxes and interest and the like, you know, and when I strike a man who is able to pay in advance, why, I can make him a reasonable figure, and he gets the best.” “It's got a good house on it, too, I believe?” Pole was stroking his chin with a thoughtful air. “Six rooms, and a well and stable and good cow-house, Mr. Baker.” Old Floyd was actually beaming. “Does the roof leak?” Pole looked at him frankly. “I won't take my wife and children into a leaky house, Mr. Floyd. If I pay out my money, I want ordinary comfort.” “Doesn't leak a drop, Mr. Baker.” Pole stroked his chin for another minute. He was looking down at the worn carpet, but he felt Floyd's eyes fastened eagerly on him. “Well, what's yore figure, Mr. Floyd?” “Two hundred dollars a year--half when you move in, and the rest a month later.” The old man seemed to hold his breath. The paper which he was folding quivered.