“Yis, the Yankee is a land-lover, but he wants land so that he may live on it, an’ he wants to see it before he gives his money for it.  Now, ye go to an Englishman, an’ till him ye’ve a bit of land in the cintre of a lost island in the middle of the Pacific say, an’ pfwhat does he do?  He’ll first thry to stale ut, thin thry to bully ye out of ut; but he’ll ind by buyin’ ut, at anny price ye’ve conscience to ask, an’ he’ll thrust to Providence to be able to find the island some day.  That’s wisdom.  I’ve seen the worrld, me boy, from Injy to the Great American Desert.  The Rooshan an’ the Frinchman want land, as much land as ye’ll cover with a kerchief, but once they get it they’re contint.  The Haybrew cares for nothin’ beyond the edge of his counter.  Now, me Angly-Saxon, he’s the prettiest fightin’ man on earth, an’ he’s fightin’ fer land, er buyin’ land, er stalin’ land, the livin’ day an’ cintury on ind.  He’ll own the earth!”

“No foreign Anglo-Saxon will ever own America,” said Franklin grimly.

“Well, I’m tellin’ ye he’ll be ownin’ some o’ this land around here.”

“I infer, Battersleigh,” said Franklin, “that you have made a sale.”

“Well, yis.  A small matter.”

“A quarter-section or so?”

“A quarter-township or so wud be much nearer,” said Battersleigh dryly.

“You don’t mean it?”

“Shure I do.  It’s a fool for luck; allowin’ Batty’s a fool, as ye’ve always thought, though I’ve denied it.  Now ye know the railroad’s crazy for poppylation, an’ it can’t wait.  It fairly offers land free to thim that’ll come live on it.  It asks the suffrin’ pore o’ Yurrup to come an’ honour us with their prisince.  The railroad offers Batty the Fool fifteen hundred acres o’ land at three dollars the acre, if Batty the Fool’ll bring settlers to it.  So I sinds over to me ould Aunt’s country—­not, ye may suppose, over the signayture o’ Cubberd Allen Wiggit-Galt, but as Henry Battersleigh, agent o’ the British American Colonization Society—­an’ I says to the proper party there, says I, ‘I’ve fifteen hundred acres o’ the loveliest land that ivver lay out of dures, an’ ye may have it for the trifle o’ fifty dollars the acre.  Offer it to the Leddy Wiggit,’ says I to him; ’she’s a philanthropist, an’ is fer Bettherin’ the Pore’ (’savin’ pore nephews,’ says I to mesilf).  ‘The Lady Wiggit,’ says I, ‘’ll be sendin’ a ship load o’ pore tinnints over here,’ says I, ‘an’ she’ll buy this land.  Offer it to her,’ says I. So he did.  So she did.  She tuk it.  I’ll be away before thim pisints o’ hers comes over to settle here, glory be!  Now, wasn’t it aisy?  There’s no fools like the English over land, me boy.  An’ ’twas a simple judgment on me revered Aunt, the Leddy Wiggit.”

“But, Battersleigh, look here,” said Franklin, “you talk of fifty dollars an acre.  That’s all nonsense—­why, that’s robbery.  Land is dear here at five dollars an acre.”