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“Can you tell me,” Kenneth asked, “who owns this property?”

“Why, I do,” replied the man, reining up.

“And you permitted these vile signs to be painted on the rocks?” demanded the boy angrily.

“O’ course,” replied the man, with a grin of amusement. “I can’t farm the rocks, can I? An’ these ‘ere signs pays me ten dollars a year, each.”

Kenneth groaned.

“I’ll give you fifteen dollars a year each if you’ll let me wash off the letters and restore the scene to its original beauty,” he declared.

“I’m willin’,” was the response. “But ye see they’re contracted. I’d git into trouble with the sign-painter.”

“Who is he?”

“Lives in Cleveland. I’ve got his name up t’ th’ house, if you’ll come along. He comes up here every spring and paints fences an’ rocks, payin’ spot cash fer th’ privilege.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Then he contracts with the soap man an’ the medicine man to paint up their ads. You’re the young ‘un from Elmhurst, ain’t ye?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’d like to earn that extra five, well enough. My name’s Parsons. I’ve got three signs let on my property in the glen. Ef ye’ll jest ride up t’ the house I’ll giv’ ye the feller’s name.”