"Gr-reat jumping Judas!" cried the irrepressible Lute, whose other
name was Parsons. "Five thousand dollars! Why, the old place ain't
worth no five thousand dollars!"

Judge Fulsom removed his pipe from his mouth, knocked out the
half-burned tobacco, blew through the stem, then proceeded to fill
and light it again. From the resultant haze issued his voice once
more, bland, authoritative, reminiscent.

"Well, now, son, that depends on how you look at it. Time was when
Andrew Bolton wouldn't have parted with the place for three times
that amount. It was rated, I remember, at eighteen thousand,
including live stock, conveyances an' furniture, when it was deeded
over to the assignees. We sold out the furniture and stock at auction
for about half what they were worth. But there weren't any bidders
worth mentioning for the house and land. So it was held by the
assignees--Cephas Dix, Deacon Whittle and myself--for private sale.
We could have sold it on easy terms the next year for six thousand;
but in process of trying to jack up our customer to seven, we lost
out on the deal. But now--"

Judge Fulsom arose, brushed the tobacco from his waistcoat front and
cleared his throat.

"Guess I'll have to be getting along," said he; "important papers to
look over, and--"

"A female woman, like her, is likely to change her mind before
tomorrow morning," said the middle-aged man dubiously. "And I heard
Mrs. Solomon Black had offered to sell her place to the young woman