Now, a rattlesnake is poisonous, but he gives fair warning; a swamp moccasin lies in wait for the unwary and strikes without sign or sound. Into Hiram Strong's troubled mind came the thought that Mr. Pepper was striking like his prototype of the swamps.  
A snaky sort of a man was Mr. Pepper—sly, a hand-rubber as he talked, with a little, sickly grin playing about his thin, mean mouth. When he opened it Hiram almost expected to see a forked tongue run out.
 
At least, of one thing was the young farmer sure: Mr. Pepper was no more to be trusted than a serpent. Therefore, he did not take a word that the man said on trust.
 
He recovered from the shock which the statement of the real estate man had caused, and he uttered no expression of either surprise, or trouble. Mrs. Atterson he could see was vastly disturbed by the statement; but somebody had to keep a cool bead¹ in this matter.
 
“Let's see your option,” Hiram demanded, bruskly.
 
“Why—if Mrs. Atterson wishes to see it——”
 
“You show it to Hi, you Pepper-man,” snapped the old lady. “I wouldn't do a thing without his advice.”
 
“Oh, well, if you consider a boy's advice material——”
 
“I know Hi's honest,” declared the old lady, tartly². “And that's what I'm sure you ain't! Besides,” she added, sadly, “Hi's as much interested in this thing as I be. If the farm's got to be sold, it puts Hi out of a job.”
 
“Oh, very well,” said the real estate man, and he drew a rather soiled, folded paper from his inner pocket.
 
He seemed to hesitate the fraction of a second about showing the paper. It increased Hi's suspicion—this hesitancy. If the man had a perfectly³ good option on the farm, why didn't he go about the matter boldly?
 
But when he got the paper in his own hands he could see nothing wrong with it. It seemed written in straight-forward language, the signatures were clear enough, and as he had seen and read Uncle Jeptha's will, he was quite sure that this was the old man's signature to the option which, for the sum of twenty dollars in hand paid to him, he agreed to sell his farm, situated⁴ so-and-so, for sixteen hundred dollars, cash, same to be paid over within one year of date.
 
“Of course,” said Hiram, slowly, handing back the paper—indeed, Pepper had kept the grip of his forefinger⁵ and thumb on it all the time—“Of course, Mrs. Atterson's lawyer must see this before she agrees to anything.”
 
“Why, Hiram! I ain't got no lawyer,” exclaimed the old lady.
 
“Go to Mr. Strickland, who made Uncle Jeptha's will,” Hiram said to her. Then he turned to Pepper:
 
“What's the name of the witness to that old man's signature?”
 
“Abel Pollock.”
 
“Oh! Henry's father?”
 
“Yes. He's got a son named Henry.”
 
“And who's the Notary⁶ Public?”
 
“Caleb Schell. He keeps the store just at the crossroads as you go into town.”
 
“I remember the store,” said Hiram, thoughtfully.
 
“But Hiram!” cried Mrs. Atterson, “I don't want to sell the farm.”
 
“We'll be sure this paper is all straight before you do sell, Mrs. Atterson.”
 
“Why, I just won't sell!” she exclaimed. “Uncle Jeptha never said nothing in his will about giving this option. And that lawyer says that in a couple of years the farm will be worth a good deal more than this Pepper offers.”
 
“Why, Mrs. Atterson!” exclaimed the real estate man, cheerfully, “as property is selling in this locality now, sixteen hundred dollars is a mighty⁷ good offer for your farm. You ask anybody. Why, Uncle Jeptha knew it was; otherwise he wouldn't have given me the option, for he didn't believe I'd come up with the price. He knew it was a high offer.”
 
“And if it's worth so much to you, why isn't it worth more to Mrs. Atterson to keep?” demanded Hiram, sharply.
 
“Ah! that's my secret—why I want it,” said Pepper, nodding. “Leave that to me. If I get bit by buying it, I shall have to suffer for my lack of wisdom.”
 
“You ain't bought it yet—you Pepper,” snapped Mrs. Atterson.
 
“But I'm going to buy it, ma'am,” replied he, rather viciously, as he stood up, ready to depart. “I shall expect to hear from you no later than Monday.”
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