"I suppose taxes on this stuff do run high."
"High! My goodness, she ain't paid anything like she should have paid. You see, our county's been run by old men. They never come in here to make their valuation. They told Foraker when he started he couldn't grow timber as a crop; they've stuck to that idea. No progress, Mr. Taylor, no progress. This piece has always been taxed just like waste land. Assessed for four dollars an acre last year an' look at it," with a wave of his long, dirty hand. "I'll bet this piece right here'll go twenty thousand to the acre right today!"
"No!"
"Sure! Ask anybody. An' four dollars an acre! My goodness, it's worth twenty-five dollars a thousand stumpage to any man. You ought to be interested, Mr. Taylor, now that you are one of our tax payers."
Indeed John was interested, but not because he owned forty acres of cut-over land in Blueberry County. He left Burns abruptly and went on, staring incredulously into the pine. Twenty thousand to the acre, and twenty-five dollars a thousand stumpage!
There were ten thousand acres of pine here, he knew. Ten thousand times—
He gave a whistle of amazement. The figures mounted dizzily. He stopped dead still in his tracks. What a property!
And Helen was in a corner. He recalled the threat of taxation that Burns had made that first night, remembered Milt Goddard's prediction of failure the next morning; remembered, also, the girl's words, as she told her foreman that the pinch was coming, that the hardest time was at hand for Foraker's Folly.
