Though Ben was not an experienced traveler, he found no difficulty in reaching his destination, having purchased a copy of “Appleton’s Railway Guide,” which afforded him all the information he required.  About fifty miles this side of Centerville he had for a seat companion a man of middle age, with a pleasant face, covered with a brown beard, who, after reading through a Philadelphia paper which he had purchased of the train-boy, seemed inclined to have a social chat with Ben.

“May I ask your destination, my young friend?” he asked.

Ben felt that it was well for him to be cautious, though he was pleasantly impressed with the appearance of his companion.

“I think I shall stop over at Centerville,” he said.

“Indeed!  That is my destination.”

“Do you live there?” asked Ben.

“No,” said the other, laughing.  “Do I look like it?  I thought you would read ‘New York’ in my face and manner.”

“I am not an experienced observer,” said Ben modestly.

“Centerville has a prosperous future before it,” said the stranger.

“Has it?  I don’t know much about the place.  I never was there.”

“You know, of course, that it is in the oil region?”

“I didn’t even know that.”

“A year ago,” resumed the stranger, “it was a humdrum farming town, and not a very prosperous one either.  The land is not of good quality, and the farmers found it hard work to get a poor living.  Now all is changed.”

Ben’s attention was aroused.  He began to understand why Mr. Jackson wished to buy the farm he rented from Mrs. Hamilton.

“This is all new to me,” he said.  “I suppose oil has been found there?”

“Yes; one old farm, which would have been dear at three thousand dollars, is now yielding hundreds of barrels daily, and would fetch fifty thousand dollars easily.”

Ben began to be excited.  If he could only sell Mrs. Hamilton’s farm for half that he felt that he would be doing an excellent thing.

“I suppose you are interested in some of the petroleum wells?” he said.

“Not yet, but I hope to be.  In fact, I don’t mind confessing that I represent a New York syndicate, and that my object in making this journey is to purchase, if I can, the Jackson farm.”

“The Jackson farm!” repeated Ben, his breath almost taken away by his surprise.

“Yes; do you know anything about it?” asked his companion.

“I have heard of a farmer in Centerville named Peter Jackson.”

“That is the man.”

“And his farm is one of the lucky ones, then?”

“It promises to be.”

“I suppose, then, you will have to pay a large sum for it?” said Ben, trying to speak calmly.

“Jackson is very coy, and, I think, grasping.  He wants fifty thousand dollars.”

“Of course you won’t pay so much?”

“I should hardly feel authorized to do so.  I may go as high as forty thousand dollars.”