"How do you mean?"

 

"We will join forces against this man Jackson. He wants to swindle both of us--that is, those whom we represent.

 

"I am willing to work with you" answered Ben, who had been favorably impressed by the appearance and frankness of his traveling companion.

 

"Then suppose to-morrow morning--it is too late to-day--we call over and see the old rascal."

 

"I would rather not have him know on what errand I come, just at first."

 

"That is in accordance with my own plans. You will go as my companion. He will take you for my son, or nephew, and, while I am negotiating, you can watch and judge for yourself."

 

"I like the plan," said Ben.

 

"When he finds out who you are he will feel pretty badly sold."

 

"He deserves it."

 

The two put up at a country hotel, which, though not luxurious, was tolerably comfortable. After the fatigue of his journey, Ben enjoyed a good supper and a comfortable bed. The evening, however, he spent in the public room of the inn, where he had a chance to listen to the conversation of a motley crowd, some of them native and residents, others strangers who had been drawn to Centerville by the oil discoveries.

 

"I tell you," said a long, lank individual, "Centerville's goin' to be one of the smartest places in the United States. It's got a big future before it."

 

"That's so," said a small, wiry man; "but I'm not so much interested in that as I am in the question whether or not I've got a big future before me."

 

"You're one of the owners of the Hoffman farm, ain't you?"

 

"Yes. I wish I owned the whole of it. Still, I've made nigh on to a thousand dollars durin' the last month for my share of the profits. Pretty fair, eh?"

 

"I should say so. You've got a good purchase; but there's one better in my opinion."

 

"Where's that?"

 

"Peter Jackson's farm."

 

Here Ben and Mr. Taylor began to listen with interest.

 

"He hasn't begun to work it any, has he?"

 

"Not much; just enough to find out its value."

 

"What's he waitin' for?"

 

"There's some New York people want it. If he can get his price, he'll sell it to them for a good sum down."

 

"What does he ask?"

 

"He wants fifty thousand dollars."

 

"Whew! that's rather stiffish. I thought the property belonged to a lady in New York."

 

"So it did; but Jackson says he bought it a year ago."

 

"He was lucky."

 

Ben and Mr. Taylor looked at each other again. It was easy to see the old farmer's game, and to understand why he was so anxious to secure the farm, out of which he could make so large a sum of money.

 

"He's playing a deep game, Ben," said Taylor, when they had left the room.

 

"Yes; but I think I shall be able to put a spoke in his wheel."

 

"I shall be curious to see how he takes it when he finds the negotiation taken out of his hands. We'll play with him a little, as a cat plays with a mouse."

 

The next morning, after a substantial breakfast, Ben and his new friend took a walk to the farm occupied by Peter Jackson. It was about half a mile away, and when reached gave no indication of the wealth it was capable of producing. The farmhouse was a plain structure nearly forty years old, badly in need of paint, and the out-buildings harmonized with it in appearance.

 

A little way from the house was a tall, gaunt man, engaged in mending a fence. He was dressed in a farmer's blue frock and overalls, and his gray, stubby beard seemed to be of a week's growth. There was a crafty, greedy look in his eyes, which overlooked a nose sharp and aquiline. His feet were incased in a pair of cowhide boots. He looked inquiringly at Taylor as ............