dictated it, much to the surprise of the women, for
Jonas always did his own writing. They did not understand that he,
also, wished to make an impression.

With a delicate flush of self-consciousness in her occupation Fannie
wrote the option agreement, and later another document, acknowledging
the receipt of eight thousand dollars to be held in trust. In exchange
for the first paper J. Rufus gravely handed Mr. Bubble a
hundred-dollar bill.

"To-morrow," said he, "I shall drop around to see you at your office,
to confer with you about my proposed enterprise."

As Wallingford left the room, attended by the almost obsequious
Bubble, he caught a lingering glance of interest, curiosity, and
perhaps more, from the bright eyes of Fannie Bubble. Her stepmother,
however, distinctly sniffed.

Meanwhile, Wallingford, at the gate, turned for a moment toward the
distant swamp where it lay now ebony and glittering silver in the
moonlight, knitted his brows in perplexity, lit another of his black
cigars, and strolled back to the hotel.

What on earth should he do with that swamp, now that he had it?
Something good ought to be hinged on it. Should he form a drainage
company to restore it to good farming land? No. At best he could only
get a hundred and fifty dollars an acre, or, say, six thousand dollars
for the forty. The acreage alone was to cost him a thousand; no
telling what the drainage would cost, but whatever the figure there
would not be profit enough to hypothecate. And it was no part of
Wallingford's intention to do any actual work. He was through for ever
with drudgery; for him was only creation.

What should he do with that swamp? As he thought of it, his mind's eye
could see only its blackness. It was, after all, only a mass of dense,
sticky, black mud!

Still revolving this problem in mind, Wallingford went to his bedroom,
where he had scarcely arrived when Bob Ranger followed him, his
sleeves rolled up again and a pail of steaming water in each hand.

"The old man said you was to have a bath when you come in," stated
Bob. "How hot do you want it?"

"I think I'll let it go till morning and have it cold," replied
Wallingford, chuckling.

"All right," said Bob. "It's your funeral and not mine. I'll just pour
this in now and it'll get cool by morning."

In the next room--wherein the bed had been hastily replaced by two
chairs, an old horsehair lounge and a kitchen table covered with a red
table-cloth--Wallin