"Oh, thar're ways and ways of putting by a penny," he now protested, "and I turned over a bit during the war, I may as well own up, though folks had only black looks for speculators then." "We used to call them 'bloodsuckers,' I remember." "Well, that's neither here nor thar, suh. When the place went for seven thousand I paid it down, and I've managed one way and another--and in spite of the pesky niggers--to make a pretty bit out of the tobacco crop, hard as times have been. The Hall is mine now, thar's no going agin that, and, so help me God, it'll belong to a William Fletcher long after I am dead." "Ah, that brings us directly to the point." Fletcher squared himself about in his chair while his pipe went out slowly. "The point, if you'll have it straight," he said, "is jest this--I want the whole place--every inch of it--and I'll die or git it, as sure's my name's my own. Thar's still that old frame house and the piece of land tacked to it, whar the overseers used to live, cutting straight into the heart of my tobacco fields--in clear view of the Hall, too--right in the middle of my land, I tell you!" "Oh, I see--I see," muttered Carraway; "that's the little farm in the midst of the estate which the old gentleman--bless his weak head and strong heart gave his wife's brother, Colonel Corbin, who came back crippled from the war. Yes, I remember now, there was a joke at the time about his saying that land was the cheapest present he could give." "It was all his besotted foolishness, you know to think of a sane man deeding away seventy acres right in the heart of his tract of two thousand. He meant it for a joke, of course. Mr. Tucker or Colonel Corbin, if you choose, was like one of the family, but he was as sensitive as a kid about his wounds, and he wanted to live off somewhar, shut up by himself. Well, he's got enough folks about him now, the Lord knows. Thar's the old lady, and the two gals, and Mr. Christopher, to say nothing of Uncle Boaz and a whole troop of worthless niggers that are eating him out of house and home. Tom Spade has a deed of trust on the place for three hundred dollars; he told me so himself." "So I understand; and all this is a serious inconvenience to you, I may suppose." "Inconvenience! Blood and thunder! It takes the heart right out of my land, I tell you. Why, the very road I cut to save myself half a mile of mudholes came to a dead stop because Mr. Christopher wouldn't let it cross his blamed pasture." Carraway thoughtfully regarded his finger nails. "Then, bless my soul!--seeing it's your private affair--what are you going to do about it?" he inquired. "Git it. The devil knows how--I don't; but git it I will. I brought you down here to talk those fools over, and I mean you to do it. It's all spite, pure, rotten spite; that's what it is. Look here, I'll gladly give 'em three thousand dollars for that strip of land, and it wouldn't bring nine hundred, on my oath!" "Have you made the offer?"