“Put the pole against the kitchen door again—so, 85.”
“I say, stranger,” interrupted the planter, “I guess you ain’t dined. As
dinner’s up, suppose you come in, and we’ll talk the matter over.”
Beau, delighted with the proposition, immediately acceded, not having
tasted cooked provisions that day.
“Now,” said the planter, while Beau was paying marked attention to a
young turkey, “it’s mighty inconvenient to have one’s homestead smashed
up, without so much as asking the liberty. And more than that, if
there’s law to be had, it shan’t be did either.”
“Pooh! nonsense, my dear friend,” replied Beau, “it’s the law that says
the railroad must be laid through kitchens. Why, we have gone through
seventeen kitchens and eight parlours in the last eight miles—people
don’t like it, but then it’s law, and there’s no alternative, except the
party persuades the surveyor to move a little to the left, and as curves
costs money most folks let it go through the kitchen.”
“Cost something, eh?” said the planter, eagerly catching at the bait
thrown out for him. “Would not mind a trifle. You see I don’t oppose
the road, but if you’ll turn to the left and it won’t be much expense,
why I’ll stand it.”
“Let me see,” said Beau, counting his fingers, “forty and forty is
eighty, and one hundred. Yes, two hundred dollars will do it.”
Unrolling a large map, intersected with lines running in every direction,
he continued—“There is your house, and here’s the road. Air line. You
see to move to the left we must excavate this hill. As we are desirous
of retaining the goodwill of parties residing on the route, I’ll agree on
the part of the company to secure the alteration, and prevent your house
from being molested.”