"Good timber land! I should say it was," said Bob. "There's nigh a hundred big walnut trees back in there a ways, to say nothing of all the fine oak an' hick'ry, but old man Cass won't touch an ax to nothing but underbrush. He says he's goin' to will 'em to his grandchildren, and by the time they grow up it'll be worth their weight in money. Was you thinkin' of buyin' some timber land?" Wallingford again hesitated over that question, but finally stated that he was not. "Here's the north road back into town," said Bob, as they came to a cross-road, and as they gained the top of the elevation they could look down and see, a mile or so away, the little town, its gray roofs and red chimneys peeping from out its sheltering of green leaves. Just beyond the intersection the side of the hill had been cut away, and clean, loose gravel lay there in a broad mass. Wallingford had Bob halt while he inspected this. "Good gravel bank," he commented. "I reckon it is," agreed Bob. "They come clear over from Highville and from Appletown and even from Jenkins Corners to get that gravel, and Tom Kerrick dresses his whole family off of that bank. He wouldn't sell it for any money. Was you thinkin' of buying a gravel bank, mister?" Instead of replying Wallingford indicated another broken hillside farther on, where shale rock had slipped loosely down, like a disintegrated slate roof, to a seeping hollow. "Is that stone good for anything?" he asked. "Nothing in the world," replied Bob. "It rots right up. If you was thinkin' of buyin' a stone quarry now, there's a fine one up the north road yonder." Wallingford laughed and shook his head. "I wasn't thinking of buying a stone quarry," said he. Bob Ranger looked shrewdly and yet half-impatiently at the big young man by his side. "You're thinkin' o' buyin' somethin'; I know that," he opined. Wallingford chuckled and dropped his big, plump hand on the other's shoulder. "Elephant hay only," he kindly explained; "just elephant hay for white elephants," whereat the inquisitive Bob, mumbling something to himself about "freshness," relapsed into hurt silence. In this silence they passed far to the northwest of the town, and a much-gullied highway led them down toward the broader west road. Here again, as they headed straight in to Blakeville with their backs to the descending sun, were gently undulating farm lands, but about half a mile out of town they came to a wide expanse of black swamp, where cat-tails and calamus held sole possession. Before this swamp Wallingford paused in long and thoughtful contemplation. "Who owns this?" he asked.