"You've come to the right place," declared Jim Ranger heartily, and when he straightened up he no longer looked awkward and out of place, as he had in the hotel office, but seemed a graceful part of the surrounding picture. "Bob, get out that little sorrel team and hitch it up to the new buggy for the gentleman," and as Bob sprang away with alacrity he turned to Wallingford. "They're not much to look at, that sorrel team," he explained, "but they can go like a couple of rats, all day, at a good, steady clip, up hill and down." "Fine," said Wallingford, who was somewhat of a connoisseur in horses, and he surveyed the under-sized, lithe-limbed, rough-coated sorrels with approval as they were brought stamping out of their stalls, though, as he climbed into his place, he regretted that they were not more in keeping with the handsome buggy. "Which way?" asked Bob, as he gathered up the reins. "The country just outside of town, in all directions," directed Wallingford briefly. "All right," said Bob with a click to the little horses, and clattering out of the door they turned to the right, away from the broad, shady street of old maples, and were almost at once in the country. For a mile or two there were gently undulating farms of rich, black loam, and these Wallingford inspected in careful turn. "Seems to be good land about here," he observed. "Best in the world," said the youngster. "Was you thinkin' of buyin' a farm?" Wallingford smiled and shook his head. "I scarcely think so," he replied. "'Twouldn't do you any good if you was," retorted Bob. "There ain't a farm hereabouts for sale." To prove it, he pointed out the extent of each farm, gave the name of its owner and told how much he was worth, to all of which Wallingford listened most intently. They had been driving to the east, but, coming to a fork in the road leading to the north, Bob took that turning without instructions, still chattering his local Bradstreet. Along this road was again rich and smiling farm land, but Wallingford, seeming throughout the drive to be eagerly searching for something, evinced a new interest when they came to a grove of slender, straight-trunked trees. "Old man Mescott gets a hundred gallons of maple syrup out of that grove every spring," said Bob in answer to a query. "He gets two dollars a gallon, then he stays drunk till plumb the middle of summer. Was you thinkin' of buyin' a maple grove?" Wallingford looked back in thoughtful speculation, but ended by shaking his head, more to himself than to Bob. They passed through a woods. "Good timber land, that," suggested Wallingford.