"I was cal'atin' to pay five hunderd," said Uncle William.

"You was?" Andy wheeled about. "You wont' get it out o' him!" He jerked
a thumb at the cliff.

Uncle William chuckled. "Now, ye've made a mistake, Andy. He's got that
much and he's got more." The gentle triumph in Uncle William's tone
diffused itself over the landscape.

Andy took it in slowly. "How much?" he asked at last.

"Six-seven thousand," said Uncle William.

"What!" Andy's feet scuffed a little. "'T ain't reasonable," he said
feebly.

"No, 't ain't reasonable." Uncle William spoke gently. "I was a good
deal s'prised myself, Andy, when I found how high they come--picters. Ye
can't own a gre't many of 'em--not at one time."

"Don't want to," said Andy, caustically.

"No, you wouldn't take much comfort in 'em," said William. "_'T is_
cur'us 't anybody should want a picter o' my old hut up there 'nough to
pay--how much d'ye s'pose they did pay for it, Andy?"

Andy glanced at it contemptuously. It glowed in the light of the late
sun, warm and radiant. "'T ain't wuth a hunderd," he said.

Uncle William's face fell a little. "Well, I wouldn't say jest that,