I can
sell you land right back of Southport, with fine market for whatever you
raise, on terms that will pay themselves--pay themselves. Just go aboard
the first boat, and I'll give you a letter to my partner in
Southport--and your fortunes will be made in ten years!"
"The trouble is," said Bill, "that we'll be so damned lonesome out where
we don't know any one. If we could locate along o' some of our ol'
mates, somebody like old John Tucker,--it would be a--a paradise,
eh, Jake?"
"The freest-hearted people in the world," said Mr. Wisner. "They'll
travel ten miles to take a spare-rib or a piece of fresh beef to a new
neighbor. Invite the stranger in to stay all night as he drives along
the road. You'll never miss your old friends; and probably you'll find
old neighbors most anywhere. Why, this country has moved out to
Wisconsin. It won't be long till you'll have to go there to find
'em--ha, ha, ha!"
"If we could find a man out there named Tucker--"
"An old--sort of--of relative of mine," I put in, seeing that Bill was
spoiling it all, "John Rucker."
"I know him!" cried Wisner. "Kind of a tall man with a sandy beard? Good
talker? Kind of plausible talker? Used to live down east of Syracuse?
Pretty well fixed? Went out west three years ago? Calls himself
Doctor Rucker?"
"I guess that's the man," said I; "do you know where he is now?"
"Had a wife and no children?" asked Wisner. "And was his wife a quiet,
kind of sad-looking woman that never said much?"
"Yes! Yes!" said I.
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