"Would you know yourself, Jack, what the property was worth,--that
is, do you feel yourself competent to pass upon its value?" asked
Peter, lifting his glass to his lips. He was getting back to his
normal condition now.
"Yes, to a certain extent, and if I fail, Mr. MacFarlane will help
me out. He was superintendent of the Rockford Mines for five
years. He received his early training there,--but there is no use
talking about it, Uncle Peter. I only told you to let you see how
the same old thing is going on day after day at Uncle Arthur's. If
it isn't Mukton, it's Ginsing, or Black Royal, or some other gas
bag."
"What did you tell him?"
"Nothing,--not in all the hour I talked with him. He did the
talking; I did the listening."
"I hope you were courteous to him, my boy?"
"I was,--particularly so."
"He wants your property, does he?" ruminated Peter, rolling a
crumb of bread between his thumb and forefinger. "I wonder what's
up? He has made some bad breaks lately and there were ugly rumors
about the house for a time.
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