young Burleson's
lean cheeks; but he answered calmly:

"What a man believes to be his own he seldom abandons from fear of
threats."

"That's kinder like our case," observed old man Santry, chewing
vigorously.

Another man leaned over and whispered to a neighbor, who turned a grim
eye on Burleson without replying.

As for Burleson and his argument, a vicious circle had been completed,
and there was little chance of an understanding; he saw that plainly,
but, loath to admit it, turned towards old man Santry once more.

"If what has been common rumor is true," he said, "Mr. Grier, from whom
I bought the Spirit Lake tract, was rough in defending what he believed
to be his own. I want to be decent; I desire to preserve the game and
the timber, but not at the expense of human suffering. You know better
than I do what has been the history of Fox Cross-roads. Twenty-five
years ago your village was a large one; you had tanneries,
lumber-mills, paper-mills--even a newspaper. To-day the timber is gone,
and so has the town except for your homes--twenty houses, perhaps. Your
soil is sand and slate, fit only for a new forest; the entire country is
useless for farming, and it is the natural home of pine and oak, of the
deer and partridge."

He took one step nearer the silent circle around the stove. "I have
offered to buy your rights; Grier hemmed you in on every side to force
you out. I do not want to force you; I offer to buy your land at a fair
appraisal. And your answer is to put a prohibitive price on the land."

"Because," observed old man Santry, "we've got you ketched. That's
business, I guess."

Burleson flushed up. "Not business; blackmail, Santry."

Another silence, then a man laughed: "Is that what they call it down to
York, Mr. Burleson?"

"I think so."

"When a man wants to put up a skyscraper an' gits all but the key-lot,
an' if the owner of the key-lot holds out for his price, do they call it
blackmail?"

"No," said Burleson; "I think I spoke hastily."

Not a sound broke the stillness in the store. After a moment old man
Santry opened his clasp-knife, leaned forward, and shaved off a thin
slice from the cheese on the counter. This he ate, faded eyes fixed on
space. Men all around him relaxed in their chairs, spat, recrossed their
muddy boots, stretching and yawning. Plainly the conference had ended.

"I am sorry," said young Burleson; "I had hoped for a fair
understanding."

Nobody answered.

He