“Will you sell this plant, Williams?”

“Not for a song, you may be sure.”

“What has it cost you to date?”

“Don’t know exactly,—­between $80,000 and $90,000, I reckon; the books will show.”

“Will you take twenty per cent advance on what the books show?  I’m on the square.”

“Now see here, old man, what would be the good of selling this factory for $100,000?  How could I place the money so that it would bring me half the things which this farm brings me now?  Could I live in a better house, or have better food, better service, better friends, or a better way of entertaining them?  You know that $5000 or $6000 a year would not supply half the luxury which we secure at Four Oaks, or give half the enjoyment to my family or my friends.  Don’t you see that it makes little difference what we call our expenses out here, so long as the farm pays them and gives us a surplus besides?  The investment is not large for one to get a living from, and it makes possible a lot of things which would be counted rank extravagance in the city.  Here’s one of them.”

A cavalcade was just entering the home lot.  First came Jessie Gordon on her thoroughbred mare Lightfoot, and with her, Laura on my Jerry.  Laura’s foot is as dainty in the stirrup as on the rugs, and she has Jerry’s consent and mine to put it where she likes.  Following them were Jane and Bill Jackson, with Jane’s slender mare looking absolutely delicate beside the big brown gelding that carried Jackson’s 190 pounds with ease.  The horses all looked as if there had been “something doing,” and they were hurried to the stables.  The ladies laughed and screamed for a season, as seems necessary for young ladies, and then departed, leaving us in peace.  Jackson filled his pipe before remarking:—­

“I’ve been over the ridge into the Dunkard settlement, and they have the cholera there to beat the band.  Joe Siegel lost sixty hogs in three days, and there are not ten well hogs in two miles.  What do you think of that?”

“That means a hard ‘fight mit Siegel,’” said Kyrle.

“It ought to mean a closer quarantine on this side of the ridge,” said I, “and you must fumigate your clothes before you appear before your swine, Jackson.  It’s more likely to be swine plague than cholera at this time of the year, but it’s just as bad; one can hardly tell the difference, and we must look sharp.”

“How does the contagion travel, Doctor?”

“On horseback, when such chumps as you can be found.  You probably have some millions of germs up your sleeve now, or, more likely, on your back, and I wouldn’t let you go into my hog pen for a $2000 note.  I’m so well quarantined that I don’t much fear contagion; but there’s always danger from infected dust.  The wind blows it about, and any mote may be an automobile for a whole colony of bacteria, which may decide to picnic in my piggery.  This dry weather is bad for us, and if we get heavy winds from off the ridge, I’m going to whistle for rain.”