Now, standing inside the sawmill, the boy looked at the bearded buyer.
“Eight hundred is a lot.”
The man nodded.
“For a kid.”
The old sawyer’s eyes sharpened.
The boy noticed the phrase.
For a kid.
Not for the wood.
He shook his head.
“No.”
The buyer stood.
“You didn’t even think.”
“Yes, I did.”
“For five seconds.”
The boy tucked the handwritten paper carefully back into the waxed cloth.
“My grandpa waited thirty-nine years.”
The sawyer looked toward him.
The boy continued.
“I can wait longer than five seconds.”
One of the younger mill workers covered a smile.
The bearded buyer’s face reddened.
“All right.”
He shrugged.
“Your choice.”
Then:
“But don’t come asking me for eight hundred when half that pile turns out rotten.”
The boy nodded.
“Okay.”
The man walked away.
He made it about twelve feet.
Then stopped.
Turned.
“One thousand.”
The boy stared.
The sawyer said nothing.
“One thousand cash.”
The boy looked at the cut burl.
Then the brass tube.
Then the buyer.
“No.”
The buyer’s smile disappeared.
“Kid.”
The old sawyer stepped between them.
“He answered.”
The buyer walked out.
His two companions followed.
But not before one of them turned toward the pile for one final look.
The boy saw it.
So did the sawyer.
The old man waited until the door closed.
Then locked it.
The boy frowned.
“Why?”
“Because people get strange around money.”
“Is it really worth that much?”
The sawyer looked toward the maple.
“I don’t know.”
That answer reassured the boy more than any number could have.
The sawyer continued.
“But this first piece is special.”
“How special?”
The old man sighed.
“That depends on how much sound figure survives drying and cutting.”
“It’s already dry.”
“Mostly.”
“Then?”
“Thickness.”
“Orientation.”
“Color.”
“Defects.”
“Who buys.”
“What they intend to make.”
The boy listened.
The sawyer pointed at the face.
“High-end guitar backs.”
“Mandolin sets.”
“Furniture panels.”
“Turned vessels.”
“Veneer.”
“A piece can be worth twenty dollars to one man and two thousand to another if he knows exactly what he can make from it.”
The boy looked toward the pile.
“So we don’t know.”
“No.”
The sawyer smiled slightly.
“And anybody telling you a huge number today is probably trying to get you excited.”
He looked toward the door the buyer had used.
“And anybody telling you a tiny number is probably trying to buy it.”
The boy smiled.