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.

"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 th