I say I wanted to borrow any money?"
"No, you didn't say so, but I couldn't think of any other business you could have."
Fred did not have occasion to answer, for here the door opened, and the servant stood on the threshold.
"Is Mr. Ferguson at home?" he asked.
"Yes; will you come in?"
Fred followed the girl into the back parlor where Robert Ferguson sat reading the evening paper.
He looked up as Fred entered.
"Good evening, Mr. Ferguson," he said.
"Good evening, Frederick," said his relative coldly.
"My mother asked me to call and inquire whether you heard anything of father's land in Colorado."
"Ahem!" coughed Mr. Ferguson. "I hope she built no day dreams on its possible value."
"No sir; but she hoped it might be worth something – even a small sum would be of value to us."
"The fact is, these Western lands are worth little or nothing."
"Father used to say that some time or other the land would be worth a good sum."
"Then I don't think much of your father's judgment. Why, I don't believe you could give it away. Let me see, how much was there?"
"A hundred and twenty-five acres."
"How did you father get possession of it?"
"There was a man he took care of in his sickness, who gave it to him out of gratitude."
Robert Ferguson shrugged his shoulders.
"It would have been better if he had given him the same number of dollars," he said.
"Then you don't think it worth as much as that?"
"No, I don't."
Fred looked disappointed. In their darkest days, he and his mother had always thought of this land as likely some time to bring them handsomely out of their troubles, and make a modest provision for their comfort. Now there seemed to be an end to this hope.
"I would have sent your mother word before," said Robert Ferguson, "but as the news was bad I thought it would keep. I don't see what possessed your father to go out to Colorado."
"He was doing poorly here, and some one recommended him to try his chances at the West."
"Well, he did a foolish thing. If a man improves his opportunities here he needn't wander away from home to earn a living. That's my view."
"Then," said Fred slowly, "you don't think the land of any value?"
"No, I don't. Of course I am sorry for your disappointment, and I am going to show it. Let your mother make over to me all claim to this land, and I will give her twenty-five dollars."
"That isn't much," said Fred soberly.
"No, it isn't much, but it's better than nothing, and I shall lose by my bargain."
Fred sat in silence thinking over this proposal. The land was the only property his poor father had left, and to sell it for twenty-five dollars seemed like parting with a birthright for a mess of pottage.
On the other hand twenty-five dollars would be of great service to them under present circumstances.
"I don't know what to say," he answered slowly.
"Oh, well, it is your lookout. I only made the offer as a personal favor."
Mr. Ferguson resumed the perusal of his paper, and thus implied that the interview was over.
"Cousin Ferguson," said Fred, with an effort, "our rent is due to-day, and we are a little short of the money to meet it. Could you lend me three dollars till Saturday night?"
"No," answered Robert Ferguson coldly. "I don't approve of borrowing money. As a matter of principle I decline to lend. But if your mother agrees to sell the land she shall have twenty-five dollars at once."
Fred rose with a heavy heart.
"I will tell mother what you propose," he said. "Good evening!"
"Good evening!" rejoined Mr. Ferguson without raising his eyes from the paper.
"Twenty-five dollars would be very acceptable just now," said Mrs.
Fenton thoughtfully, when Fred reported the offer of his rich relative.
"But it wouldn't last long, mother."
"It would do us good while it lasted."
"You are right there, mother, but I have no doubt the land is worth a good deal more."
"What makes you think so? Cousin Ferguson – "
"Wouldn't have made the offer he did if he hadn't thought so, too."
"He might have done it to help us."
"He isn't that kind of a man. No, mother, it is for our interest to hold on to the land till we know more about it."
"How shall we manage about the rent?"
Fred looked troubled.
"Something may turn up to-morrow. When the landlord comes, ask him to come again at eight o'clock, when I shall be home."
"Very well, Fred."
Mrs. Fenton was so much in the habit of trusting to her son that she dismissed the matter with less anxiety than Fred felt. He knew very well that trusting for something to turn up is a precarious dependence, but there seemed nothing better to do.
CHAPTER IV.
ZEBULON MACK
At twelve that day the landlord, Zebulon Mack, presented himself promptly at the door of Mrs. Fenton's room.
He was a small, thin, wrinkled man, whose suit would have been refused as a gift by the average tramp, yet he had an income of four thousand dollars a year from rents. He was now sixty years of age. At twenty-one he was working for eight dollars a week, and saving three-fifths of that. By slow degrees he had made himself rich, but in so doing he had denied himself all but the barest necessaries. What he expected to do with his money, as he was a bachelor with no near relatives, was a mystery, and he had probably formed no definite ideas himself. But it was his great enjoyment to see his hoards annually increasing, and he had no mercy for needy or unfortunate tenants who found themselves unable to pay their rent promptly.
Mrs. Fenton opened the door with a troubled look.
"I've come for that other three dollars, ma'am," said Zebulon Mack, standing on the threshold.
"I'm very sorry, sir – " began the widow.
"What! haven't you got the money?" snarled Mack, screwing up his features into a frown that made him look even more unprepossessing.
"My son Fred will be paid on Saturday night,
