"Jonas Bubble," answered Bob, recovering cheerfully from his late rebuff. "Gosh! He's the richest man in these parts. Owns three hundred acres of this fine farmin' land we just passed, owns the mill down yander by the railroad station, has a hide and seed and implement store up-town, and lives in the finest house anywhere around Blakeville; regular city house. That's it, on ahead. Was you thinkin' o' buyin' some swamp land?" To this Wallingford made no reply. He was gazing backward over that useless little valley, its black waters now turned velvet crimson as they caught the slant of the reddening sun. "Here's Jonas Bubble's house," said Bob presently. It was the first house outside of Blakeville--a big, square, pretentious-looking place, with a two-story porch in front and a quantity of scroll-sawed ornaments on eaves and gables and ridges, on windows and doors and cornices, and with bright brass lightning-rods projecting upward from every prominence. At the gate stood, bare-headed, a dark-haired and strikingly pretty girl, with a rarely olive-tinted complexion, through which, upon her oval cheeks, glowed a clear, roseate under-tint. She was fairly slender, but well rounded, too, and very graceful. "Hello, Fannie!" called Bob, with a jerk at his flat-brimmed straw hat. "Hello, Bob!" she replied with equal heartiness, her bright eyes, however, fixed in inquiring curiosity upon the stranger. "That's Jonas Bubble's girl," explained Bob, as they drove on. "She's a good looker, but she won't spoon." Wallingford, grinning over the fatal defect in Fannie Bubble, looked back at the girl. "She would make a Casino chorus look like a row of Hallowe'en confectionery junk," he admitted. "Fannie, come right in here and get supper!" shrilled a harsh voice, and in the doorway of the Bubble homestead they saw an overly-plump figure in a green silk dress. "Gosh!" said Bob, and hit one of the little sorrel horses a vindictive clip. "That's Fannie's stepmother. Jonas Bubble married his hired girl two years ago, and now they don't hire any. She makes Fannie do the work." CHAPTER XVIII WALLINGFORD SPECULATES IN THE CHEAPEST REAL ESTATE PROCURABLE