“Call to mind that British general—what’s his name? Bradley—Bradish—some sich thing. Didn’t pay no heed to a young feller named Washington when he was goin’ to fight the Injuns. He come right out bold to fight like you’re aimin’ to do. But did the Injuns? Wa-al, accounts says not. They done consid’able sneaking and prowlin’ under cover, and this general got all chawed up.” “I didn’t want the man to think I was a fool.” “Um! Shows you’re young, Jim. Hain’t no better way of gittin’ a strangle holt on to a feller than by lettin’ him think you’re a fool. The s’prise of findin’ out sudden that you hain’t comes nigh to chokin’ him.” “Anyhow, it’s done,” said Jim. “No argyin’ that p’int. I notice Moran didn’t leave town this mornin’ like he calc’lated to. What you figgerin’ on next? Looks like you run on to some facts up the River Road.” “I’m going to look for some more facts.” “What kind of facts, son?” “Moran’s got a thin spot. I want to find it.” “Um! Thin spot. Calc’late I understand you. Figger he’s been spreadin’ his butter so thin that the bread won’t be covered enough somewheres, eh? Maybe so. Maybe so. Ever see a map of the Diversity Hardwood Company’s holdin’s?” “No.” “I got one. Had the Register of Deeds fix it up for me, thinkin’ it might come in handy.” Zaanan went to a cupboard and brought out a rolled map which he spread on the table. It was marked off in sections. Those owned by the company were blocked in with red ink. “Nigh forty-five thousand acres,” said Zaanan. Jim bent over the map. The Diversity Company’s property ran in two irregular, serrated strips. Between the two portions was a sort of strait nowhere marked with red. “They’re cut in two,” said Jim. “Who owns the stuff between? Timbered, is it?” “As good hardwood as ever growed. B’longs to old Louis Le Bar. Run between twenty and twenty-five thousand to the acre. And that’s consid’able hardwood, son.” “Logically the company ought to own it.” “Logically it wants to, but old Louis won’t sell. Anyhow, he wouldn’t.” Zaanan emphasized the last word significantly. Jim looked across the table into the old man’s twinkling eyes, shrewd, kindly eyes belonging to a man who had learned humankind by scores of years of meeting with them in their adversities. Zaanan said no more, but rolled up his map. “I take it,” said Jim, “that you’ve shown me a fact. One of the kind I was looking for.” “Folks says Opportunity knocks on a feller’s door,” said Zaanan. “Maybe so, but more times it goes sneakin’ past his house quiet in the dark. And sometimes it’s hard to catch as a greased pig.” “Much obliged,” Jim said. “Where will I find Le Bar?” “Stiddy, now. Stiddy. Before you pick up that animile be sure it’s a cat and not a skunk. You’re one of them pouncin’ kind of young men. This here’s a time to study first and jump afterward.”