“I wouldn’t reckon it as worth more than five thousand dollars,” insisted the Colonel.
“And ten thousand dollars for improvements.”
But the Colonel arose. ‚ÄúYou had better talk to the directors of the Jefferson Bank,‚Äù he said politely. ‚ÄúThey may accommodate you‚ÅÝ‚Äîhow much would you want?‚Äù
“Five thousand dollars,” Miss Smith replied. Then she hesitated. That would buy the land, to be sure; but money was needed to develop and run it; to install tenants; and then, too, for new teachers. But she said nothing more, and, nodding to his polite bow, departed. Colonel Cresswell had noticed her hesitation, and thought of it as he settled to his cigar again.
Bles Alwyn arose next morning and examined the sky critically. He feared rain. The season had been quite wet enough, particularly down on the swamp land, and but yesterday Bles had viewed his dykes with apprehension for the black pool scowled about them. He dared not think what a long heavy rain might do to the wonderful island of cotton which now stood fully five feet high, with flowers and squares and budding bolls. It might not rain, but the safest thing would be to work at those dykes, so he started for spade and hoe. He heard Miss Smith calling, however.
‚ÄúBles‚ÅÝ‚Äîhitch up!‚Äù
He was vexed. ‚ÄúAre you‚ÅÝ‚Äîin a hurry, Miss Smith?‚Äù he asked.
“Yes, I am,” she replied, with unmistakable positiveness.