During the course of this torrential appeal Tim Wagner did not even turn to look at his petitioner. He gave no evidence whatever that he heard what Sam was saying. Instead, he stopped, thrust his gloves into his pocket, cast, his eyes round slyly in a series of quick glances, and suddenly began to root into himself violently with a clutching hand. Then he straightened up like a man just coming out of a trance, and seemed to become aware for the first time that Sam was waiting.
“What’s that? What did you say, Sam?” he said rapidly. “How much did they offer you for it? Don’t sell, don’t sell!” he said suddenly and with great emphasis. “Now’s the time to buy, not to sell. The trend is upwards. Buy! Buy! Don’t take it. Don’t sell. That’s my advice!”
“I’m not selling, Tim,” Sam cried excitedly. “I’m thinking of buying.”
“Oh—yes, yes, yes!” Tim muttered rapidly. “I see, I see.” He turned now for the first time and fixed his eyes upon his questioner. “Where did you say it was?” he demanded sharply. “Deepwood? Good! Good! Can’t go wrong! Buy! Buy!”
He started to walk away into the drugstore, and the lounging idlers moved aside deferentially to let him pass. Sam rushed after him frantically and caught him by the arm, shouting:
“No, no, Tim! It’s not Deepwood! It’s the other way…I’ve been telling you…It’s West Libya!”
“What’s that?” Tim cried sharply. “West Libya? Why didn’t you say so? That’s different. Buy! Buy! Can’t go wrong! Whole town’s moving in that direction. Values double out there in six months. How much do they want?”
“Seventy-five thousand,” Sam panted. “Option expires tomorrow…Five yeas to pay it up.”
“Buy! Buy!” Tim barked, and walked off into the drugstore.
Sam strode back towards George, his eyes blazing with excitement.
“Did you hear him? Did you hear what he said?” he demanded hoarsely. “You heard him, didn’t you?...Best damned judge of real estate that ever lived…Never known to make a mistake Buy! Will double in value in six months!’...You were standing right here”—he said hoarsely and accusingly, glaring at George—“you heard what he said, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I heard him.”
Sam glanced wildly about him, passed his hand nervously through his hair several times, and then said, sighing heavily and shaking his head in wonder:
“Seventy-five thousand dollars’ profit in one deal!...Never heard anything like it in my…life! Lord, Lord!” he cried. “What are we coming to?”
Somehow the news had got round that George had written a book and that it would soon be published. The editor of the local paper heard of it and sent a reporter to interview him, and printed a story about it.
“So you’ve written a book?” said the reporter. “What kind of a book is it? What’s it about?”
“Why—I—I hardly know how to tell you,” George stammered. “It—it’s a novel----”
“A Southern novel? Anything to do with this part of the country?”
“Well—yes—that is—it’s about the South, all right—about an Old Catawba family—but----”
LOCAL BOY WRITES ROMANCE OF THE OLD SOUTH
George Webber, son of the late John Webber and nephew of Mark Joyner, local hardware merchant, has written a novel with a Libya Hill background which the New York house of James Rodney & Co. will publish this autumn.
When interviewed last night, the young author stated that his book was a romance of the Old South, centring about the history of a distinguished antebellum family of this region. The people of Libya Hill and environs will await the publication of the book with special interest, not only because many of them will remember the author, who was born and brought up here, but also because that stirring period of Old Catawba’s past has never before been accorded its rightful place of honour in the annals of Southern literature.
“We understand you have travelled a great deal since you left home. Been to Europe several times?”
“Yes, I have.”
“In your opinion, how does this section of the country compare with other places you have seen?”
“Why—why—er—why good!...I mean, fine! That is----”
LOCAL PARADISE COMPARES FAVOURABLY
In answer to the reporter’s question as to how this part of the country compared to other places he had seen, the former Libya man declared:
“There is no place I have ever visited—and my travels have taken me to England, Germany, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, Norway, Denmark, Sweden, to say nothing of the south of France, the Italian Riviera, and the Swiss Alps—which can compare in beauty with the setting of my native town.
“We have here,” he said enthusiastically, “a veritable Paradise of Nature. Air, climate, scenery, water, natural beauty, all conspire to make this section the most ideal place in the whole world to live.”
“Did you ever think of coming back here to live?”
“Well—yes—I have thought of it—but—you see----”
WILL SETTLE AND BUILD HERE
When questioned as to his future plans, the author said: