THE real-estate man and Andy were out behind the barn. There was a glimpse of the harbor in the distance, and behind them the moor rose to the horizon.

The real-estate man’s little eyes scanned it. “You haven’t much land,” he said casually.

“I own to the top—pretty near an acre,” said Andy. “And there’s the house and barn—and the chicken-coop.” He cast an eye toward it.

A white fowl emerged and scurried across in front of them.

The man’s small eyes followed her, without interest. “I found a number of houses down in the village,” he said smoothly, in his flat voice, “and plenty of land—Almost any of them will sell, I fancy.”

“Yes, they ’ll sell.” Andy’s eye was gloomy. “‘Most anybody around here ’ll sell—except William,” he added thoughtfully.

The narrow eye turned on him. “How much did you say you sold to him?”

“‘Bout four hundred acre, I reckon,” said Andy.

“Five hundred dollars is what he paid you, I believe?” The man’s voice was smooth, and patient.

Andy wriggled a little. “‘Twa ’n’t enough,” he said feebly.

“Well—I don’t know—” The man glanced about him, “I was looking at a house down in the village this morning—eight rooms—good roof—ten acres of land, and barn. I can have the whole thing for six hundred.”

“That’s Gruchy’s,” said Andy quickly, “He wants to move off the Island.”

“He said he wanted to move—that’s the name—Gruchy—I’d forgotten.” The small eyes looked off at the distant glint of water. “In some ways I like that place better than this,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s on the shore—”

“I’ve got a right of way,” said Andy.

“To the shore!” The man’s eyes looked at him an instant, and a little light flicked in them, and was gone.

“It’s down here,” said Andy. He moved over to the right. “Here’s my entrance—and it runs from here straight across to the shore. We never measured it off—I al’ays cut across anywheres I want to. But it’s in the deed—and anybody ’t buys the land ’ll have it.” He looked at the other shrewdly.

“I see—” The real estate man’s gaze followed the right of way across Uncle William’s moor. “I see—Well, of course, that makes a difference—a little difference. It would be foolish to buy on an island and not have access to the shore—I presume you could buy the Gruchy place,” he suggested.

“That’s what I was thinking of,” said Andy, “—unless William wanted to give me a little piece.” His gloomy eyes rested, almost fondly, on the big moor that stretched away under its piled-up clouds.

“Better for business down in the village, I should think,” said the man briskly.

“Yes, it’s better for business,” admitted Andy. “Only I’ve got kind of used to it up here.” His eye sought the house. “I was born in there, you know—and my father lived there and my grandfather.”

The real-estate man’s hand reached to his pocket and found something and drew it out, slowly.

Andy’s eyes rested on it, fascinated.

The man seemed to hesitate. He looked down at the roll in his hand, and half returned it to his pocket. Then he looked again, doubtfully, at the house and barn and chicken-coop. He had turned his back on the right of way and the horizon line above them. “I’ll tell you how it is, Mr. Halloran—” His voice was frankly confidential—“I have taken a liking to your place and I’d be willing to pay a little more for it than for some place I didn’t fancy. I’m made like that.” He expanded a little. “Now, value for value, Gruchy’s place is worth twice what yours is—and I know it.” He looked at him narrowly. “But I’m going to offer you a thousand dollars—five hundred down and five hundred the first of the month—if you want to close now.” He fingered the bills a little.

Andy’s eyes grew round. “I’ll have to ask Harr’et,” he said. “She ain’t very well.” He glanced toward a darkened window at the rear of the house—“She’s havin’ neuralgia—off and on—I wouldn’t want to ask her when she has it. She has a bad spell today.” He shook his head.

The other looked at him sympathetically. “I have to go to-night—and I couldn’t be sure I’d want to offer a thousand in the morning—even if I stayed—not if I came across something I like better.” He returned the bills decisively to his pocket.

Andy’s glance followed them. “I don’t really need to ask her.” His glance flickered. “She’s said, time and again, she ’d be glad if I’d sell. She comes from northeast of Digby. I reckon she ’d like to go back.”

“Digby’s a fine place,” said the man. “Well, good day, Mr. Halloran. I’m glad to have met you.” He held out a round hand.

Andy took it without enthusiasm. “I do ’no’ but I might as well sell,” he said feebly.

The other waved it away. “Don’t think of it—not without your wife’s consent—not if you’re accustomed to doing what she tells you.”

“I ain’t,” said Andy indignantly.

“Of course not—I only meant that you ’d be better satisfied—”

“I’m satisfied now,” said Andy. “You pay me the five hundred down, and the place is yours.”

The man cast a cool glance at the house and barn and the white fowl strutting before them. “Well—if you really want to sell—” He drew the roll from his pocket and counted out the bills slowly, handing them to Andy with careless gesture.

Andy’s hand closed about them spasmodically and he looked down at them with half-open mouth and grinned a little.

“Now, if you ’ll sign the receipt—” The man drew a fountain pen from his pocket and wrote a few lines rapidly. “There you are. Sign here, please.”

Andy’s fingers found the place and rubbed it a little and traced his name slowly. He looked at the crumpled bills, and a deep smile filled his face. “Harr’et will be pleased!” he said.

“That’s good!” The real-estate man beamed on him benignantly. “Tomorrow we will draw up the papers, and you can look about you for a place. You ’ll find something to suit, and I sha ’n’t hurry you—Take your time.” He moved off slowly, waving his hands in a kind of real-estate benediction, and Andy stared after him, entranced.

“Oh, by the way—” The man came back. “I wouldn’t say anything about it if I were you—not for a while. There are always people ready to make trouble—and you ’ll be able to buy cheaper if they don’t know you’ve got to buy.” He beamed on him. “Of course, if you have to tell your wife—?”

“I don’t have to,” blurted Andy.

“All the better—all the better. The fewer women know things, the better.” The man smiled genially, and his light, smooth steps bore him away—out of Andy’s sight.

When he had disappeared, Andy looked down at the bills. He drew out from his coat a large rumpled handkerchief and tied the bills skillfully in one corner and thrust it back into his pocket. Then he walked, with firm step, past the darkened window, into the house.