SPEAKING WITH YOUR HANDS IS EASIER WHEN YOU WEAR THE RIGHT GLOVES
The next day, Ripley Vilcot put on his riding gloves—the everyday pair, not the fancy evening pair, or the casual pair, or the "Don't mess with me, I'm angry" pair—and climbed onto his prizewinning Arbian mount. He rode out of his stable and down his driveway. From there, it was a short hop down the road to the Rollops' farm. Arbians are fantastic hoppers.
This place would make a perfect annex to my farm, he thought, looking at the Rollops' measly spread. I could tear down that one-room shack they call a house and build a gazebo, draped with winnowberry vines. I could replace that pathetic garden with a nice lawn, and bulldoze that ripweed field and put in Tormy's pool—maybe with a statue of me in the middle. It would be so much more pleasurable to look out on myself, rather than this dry and dusty eyesore.
The Rollops' home was squalid, and it looked like the roof was ready to cave in. Weeds curled around the base of the house like greedy fingers. Faded shirts hung on the clothesline, waving as if they were saying, Save us from this desolation!
How long do I have to wait for them to leave? Why won't they sell me this worthless blip of land?
Vilcot knocked on the door with his gloved hand, wondering if he should have worn the "Don't mess with me" pair instead.
Jaq's mother answered.
They stared at each other.
Vilcot thought that Mrs. Rollop really should take better care of herself; she was a mess. Her eyes were droopy, and her hair was graying and frizzy. It looked like she hadn't had her nails done … well, ever.
"Mrs. Rollop," he said at last.
"Mr. Vilcot," she replied.
"It is your great fortune," he said, smiling, "that my grandson has become enamored of your farm's freasel. I am prepared to offer you a price well in excess of what they are charging at Pests-B-Gone. I think twenty damars is more than fair, and you should accept it. Obviously"—he looked around her and into the room—"you need it."
He opened his wallet and began counting out the bills.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Vilcot, but Klingdux belongs to my son, and he's not for sale."
Ripley Vilcot had had a feeling she wouldn't accept his first offer. She was so obvious in her greed. He decided to feign surprise at her rejection.
"Really? Are you sure? It's a very generous offer."
Mrs. Rollop shrugged. She was doing some acting of her own, Vilcot could tell. The old "It's out of my hands" bit. He blinked at her, wondering how best to proceed against this greedy woman.
"Very well," he said after a few dozen blinks. "Twenty-five damars. But I assure you, I will not go one damar higher."
"I'm sorry," she said. "Why don't you buy one at Pests-B-Gone yourself?"
Vilcot was stunned into silence. It was an angry silence. A silence that poked him in the ribs and told him he was losing. Whirls of black and gray appeared at the edges of his vision, haloing Mrs. Rollop so that it looked as if her head was framed in menace. Vilcot had seen this picture before; it happened whenever he thought someone was trying to take advantage of him. If there was one thing Ripley Vilcot would not stand for, it was someone who thought she could play him for a fool.
And she's playing me, he thought. Of course she's playing me. Oh, how I hate the Rollops! I hate them. I hate the type of people they are. They relish being troublemakers, they do. It's the only satisfaction they get out of life, spoiling better people's lives. Just because they're incapable of achieving any sort of success themselves.
The swirls of black were now streaked with red, and they shook as if they were laughing at him. Vilcot imagined Mrs. Rollop telling the other workers at the factory, Look how much the old fool paid for my wipper-slinger!
It took him a moment to unclench his teeth and say, "I see. I will give you one last chance to accept my generous offer. I don't think you want to refuse it."
"I'm sorry."
You will be.
Vilcot turned to go. Nobody laughs at me. I will not let her get away with it. And then he struck his mount much harder than necessary and hopped home.
A plan formed in his mind as he left the Rollops' struggling farm. They'd be a little more eager to sell if their crops failed, he thought. Oh, yes … if I divert the river, their farm will get no water. It will cost me a fortune, but sometimes a lesson has to be taught. Nobody will say no to me again.
