If he could get only a half pound of roots from there now, they would serve his purpose.

He went down the bank, Belshazzar at his heels, and at last found the place.

Many trees had been cut, but there remained enough for shade; the fields bore the ragged, unattractive appearance of old.

The Harvester smiled grimly as he remembered that the man who lived there once had charged him for damage he might do to trees in driving across his woods, and boasted to his neighbours that a young fool was paying for the privilege of doing his grubbing.

If Jameson had known what the roots he was so anxious to dispose of brought a pound on the market at that time, he would have been insane with anger.