The sawyer looked at the first cut again.
“Then forty dollars might be the cheapest load of maple anyone in this county has bought in fifty years.”
The bearded buyer said sharply:
“Don’t fill his head with numbers.”
The sawyer turned.
“You were filling it with jokes five minutes ago.”
The other two men stopped smiling.
The buyer crossed his arms.
“I’m saying nobody knows what’s inside the rest.”
“Correct.”
“Could be punky.”
“Yes.”
“Could be cracked.”
“Yes.”
“Could have insects.”
“Yes.”
The sawyer nodded.
“That’s why nobody’s valuing the pile yet.”
The buyer looked toward the child.
Then softened his voice.
“Listen.”
The boy immediately disliked the change.
Adults who mocked children and then suddenly became gentle usually wanted something.
The man pointed toward the cut burl.
“That piece could be worth something.”
The boy said nothing.
“I buy figured maple.”
“I know.”
The buyer blinked.
“How?”
“You said so when you came in.”
The other men looked away.
The buyer smiled thinly.
“Fair.”
He crouched slightly, trying to bring himself closer to the boy’s eye level.
“I could save you a lot of trouble.”
The old sawyer’s expression hardened.
The buyer continued.
“Wood like this needs drying.”
“Storage.”
“Inspection.”
“Grading.”
“Marketing.”
“People will tell you crazy values.”
“Most of them won’t actually pay.”
The boy listened.
“I’ll give you eight hundred dollars for the whole pile.”
The sawmill went silent again.
Not because eight hundred dollars was a bad offer.
Because everyone had heard forty dollars five minutes earlier.
The boy looked at the old sawyer.
The sawyer said nothing.
Good.
The boy looked back at the buyer.
“You laughed at it.”
The man’s jaw tightened.
“I laughed before it was cut.”
“So now it’s worth eight hundred?”
“I’m taking risk.”
The boy looked down at the paper.
Twenty-seven pieces.
Then toward the opened burl.
“Grandpa wrote not to slab them until seasoned.”
The buyer smiled.
“That’s old advice.”
The sawyer finally spoke.
“No.”
The buyer turned.
The sawyer walked toward the wood.
“Not necessarily.”
He touched the air above the cut face without touching the maple itself.
“See those radial checks?”
The buyer looked.
“Small.”
“Exactly.”
The sawyer continued.
“If this had been cut green thirty years ago, half the figure might’ve split itself apart.”
The boy looked at him.
“Thirty years?”
“Maybe more.”
The sawyer turned toward the paper.
“What year does it say?”
The boy checked.