9142
N his way to Rayburn Miller's office that morning Alan decided that he would not allude to the note he had received the previous evening from Dolly. He did not like the cynical mood into which such subjects seemed to draw his friend. He knew exactly what Miller would say, and felt that it would be too personal to be agreeable.
He found the lawyer standing in the door of his little office building waiting for him.
“I reckon my message surprised you,” Miller said, tentatively, as he shook hands.
“It took me off my feet,” smiled Alan. “You see, I never hoped to get you interested in that scheme, and when I heard you were actually going to Atlanta about it, I hardly knew what to make of it.”
Miller turned into his office, kicked a chair towards Alan and dropped into his creaking rocker.
“It was not due to you that I did get interested,” he said. “Do you know, I can't think of it without getting hot all over with shame. To tell you the truth, there is one thing I have always been vain about. I didn't honestly think there was a man in Georgia that could give me any tips about investments, but I had to take back water, and for a woman. Think of that—a woman knocked me off my perch as clean and easy as she could stick a hair-pin in a ball of hair. I'm not unfair; when anybody teaches me any tricks, I acknowledge the corn an' take off my hat. It was this way: I dropped in to see Miss Dolly the other evening. I accidentally disclosed two things in an offhand sort of way. I told her some of the views I gave you at the dance in regard to marriage and love and one thing and another, and then, in complimenting you most highly in other things, I confess I sort o' poked fun at your railroad idea.”
“I thought you had,” said Alan, good-naturedly; “but go on.”
“Well, she first read me a lecture about bad, empty, shallow men, whose very souls were damned by their past careers, interfering with the pure impulses of younger men, and I 'll swear I felt like crawling in a hole and pulling the hole in after me. Well, I got through that, in a fashion, because she didn't want me to see her real heart, and that helped me. Then she took up the railroad scheme. You know I had heard that she advised her father in all his business matters, but, geewhilikins! I never dreamt she could give me points, but she did—she simply did. She looked me straight in the eye and stared at me like a national bank examiner as she asked me to explain why that particular road could not be built, and why it would not be a bonanza for the owners of the timber-land. I thought she was an easy fish at first, and I gave her plenty of line, but she kept peppering me with unanswerable questions till I lay down on the bank as weak as a rag. The first bliff she gave me was in wanting to know if there were not many branch roads that did not own their rolling stock. She said she knew one in the iron belt in Alabama that didn't own a car or an engine, and wouldn't have them as a free gift. She said if such a road were built as you plan these two main lines would simply fall over each other to send out cars to be loaded for shipment at competitive rates. By George! it was a corker. I found out the next day that she was right, and that doing away with the rolling stock, shops, and so forth, would cut down the cost of your road more than half.”
“That's a fact,” exclaimed Alan, “and I had not thought of it.”
“She's a stronger woman than I ever imagined,” said Miller. “By George! if she were not on your string, I'd make a dead set for her. A wife like that would make a man complete. She's in love with you—or thinks she is—but she hasn't that will o' the wisp glamour. She's business from her toes to her fingertips. By George! I believe she makes a business of her love affair; she seems to think she 'll settle it by a sum in algebra. But to get back to the railroad, for I've got lots to tell you. What do you reckon I found that day? You couldn't guess in a thousand years. It was a preliminary survey of a railroad once planned from Darley right through your father's purchase to Morganton, North Carolina. It was made just before the war, by old Colonel Wade, who, in his day, was one of the most noted surveyors in the State. This end of the line was all I cared about, and that was almost as level as a floor along the river and down the valley into the north end of town. It's a bonanza, my boy. Why that big bottle of timber-land has never been busted is a wonder to me. If as many Yankees had been nosing about here as there have been in other Southern sections it would have been snatched up long ago.”
“I'm awfully glad to hear you say all this,” said Alan, “for it is the only way out of our difficulty, and something has to be done.”
“It may cost you a few years of the hardest work you ever bucked down to,” said Miller, “and some sleepless nights, but I really believe you have fallen on to a better thing than any I ever struck. I could make it whiz. I've already done something that will astonish you. I happen to know slightly Tillman Wilson, the president of the Southern Land and Timber Company. Their offices are in Atlanta. I knew he was my man to tackle, so when I got to Atlanta yesterday I ran upon him just as if it were accidental. I invited him to lunch with me at the Capitol City Club—you know I'm a non-resident member. You see, I knew if I put myself in the light of a man with something to sell, he'd hurry away from me; but I didn't. As a pretext, I told him I had some clients up here who wanted to raise a considerable amount of money and that the security offered was fine timber-land. You see that caught him; he was on his own ground. I saw that he was interested, and I boomed the property to the skies. The more I talked the more he was interested, till it was bubbling out all over him. He's a New-Englander, who thinks a country lawyer without a Harvard education belongs to an effete civilization, and I let him think he was pumping me. I even left off my g's and ignored my r's. I let him think he had struck the softest thing of his life. Pretty soon he begun to want to know if you cared to sell, but I skirted that indifferently as if I had no interest whatever in it. I told him your father had bought the property to hold for an advance, that he had spent years of his life picking out the richest timber spots and buying them up. Then he came right out, as I hoped he would, and asked me the amount you wanted to borrow on the property. I had to speak quick, and remembering that you had said the old gentleman had put in about twenty thousand first and last, I put the amount at twenty-five thousand. I was taking a liberty, but I can easily get you out of it if you decide not to do it.”
“Twenty-five thousand! On that land?” Alan cried. “It would tickle my father to death to sell it for that.”
“I can arrange the papers so that you are not liable for any security outside of the land, and it would practically amount to a sale if you wished it, but you don't wish it. I finally told him that I had an idea that you would sell out for an even hundred thousand.”
“A hundred thousand!” repeated Alan, with a cheery laugh. “Yes, we'd let go at that.”
“Well, the figures didn't scarce him a bit, for he finally came right out and asked me if it was my opinion that in case his company made the loan, you would agree to give him the refusal of the land at one hundred thousand. I told him I didn't know, that I thought it possible, but that just then I had no interest in the matter beyond borrowing a little money on it. He asked me how long I was going to stay in Atlanta. I told him I was going to a bank and take the night train back. 'The banks will stick you for a high rate of interest,' he said, jealously. 'They don't do business for fun, while, really, our concern happens just now to have some idle capital on hand. Do you think you could beat five per cent.? I admitted that it was low enough, but I got up as if I was suddenly reminded that the banks close early in the afternoon. 'I think we can make the loan,' he said, 'but I must first see two or three of the directors. Can't you give me two hours?' I finally gave in and promised to meet him at the Kimball House at four. I went to a matinée, saw it half over, and went in at the ladies' entrance of the hotel. I saw him looking about for me and dodged him.”
“Dodged him?” echoed Alan. “Why—”
Miller laughed. “You don't suppose I'd let a big fish like that see me flirting my hook and pole about in open sunlight, do you? I saw by his manner that he was anxious to meet me, and that was enough; besides, you can't close a deal like that in a minute, and there are many slips. I went back to the club and threw myself on a lounge and began to smoke and read an afternoon paper. Presently he came in a cab. I heard him asking for me in the hall and buried my head in the paper. He came in on me and I rose and looked stupid. I can do it when I try—if itissomething God has failed at—and I began to apologize.
“He didn't seem to care. 'If it had been a deal of your own,' he said with a laugh, 'you'd have been more prompt,' and I managed to look guilty. Then he sat down.
“'Our directors are interested,' he said, confidentially. 'The truth is there is not another concern in America that can handle that property as cheaply as we can. We happen to have a railroad about that length up in East Tennessee that has played out, and you see we could move it to where it would do some good.'
“As soon as he told me that I knew he was our meat; besides, I saw trade in his eye as big as an arc-light. To make a long tale short, he is coming up here tonight, and if your father is willing to accept the loan, he can get the money, giving only the land as security—provided we don't slip up. Here's the only thing I'm afraid of. When Wilson gets here he may get to making inquiries around and drop on to the report that your father is disgusted with his investment, and smell a mouse and pull off. What I want to do is to get at him the first thing after breakfast in the morning, so you'd better bring your father and mother in early. If we once get Wilson's twenty-five thousand into it, we can eventually sell out. The main thing is the loan. Don't you think so?”
“I certainly do,” said Alan. “Of course, a good many things might interfere; we'd have to get a right of way and a charter before the road could be built, and I reckon they won't buy till they are sure of those things.”
“No it may take a long time and a lot of patience,” said Miller. “But your father could afford to wait if he can get his money back by means of the loan. I tell you that's the main thing. If I had offered to sell Wilson the whole thing at twenty-five thousand he never would have come up here, but he is sure now that the property is just what he is looking for. Oh, we are not certain of him by a long jump! It all depends on whether he will insist on going over there or not. If he does, those moss-backs will bu'st the thing wide open. If he comes straight to my office in the morning the deal may be closed, but if he lies around the hotel talking, somebody will spoil our plans and Wilson will hang off to make his own terms later—if he makes any at all. It's ticklish, but we may win.”
“Itisa rather ticklish situation,” admitted Alan, “but even if we do get the loan on the property, don't you think Wilson may delay matters and hope to scoop the property in for the debt?”
“He might,” Miller smiled, “if he didn't want to move that railroad somewhere else, and, besides, your father can keep the money in suitable shape to pay off the note in any emergency and free himself.”
“I don't know how to thank you, old man,” answered Alan. “If you had been personally interested in this you could not have done more.”
Miller threw himself back in his chair and smiled significantly. “Do I look like a man with nothing in it?” he asked.
“But you haven't anything in it,” retorted Alan, wonderingly.
“That's all you know about it” Miller laughed.
“If the road is built I 'll make by it. This is another story. As soon as I saw you were right about putting a railroad into the mountains, I began to look around for some of that timber-land. I didn't have long to wait, for the only man that holds much of it besides Colonel Barclay—Peter Mosely, whom Perkins fooled just as he did your father—came in. He was laying for me, I saw it in his eye. The Lord had delivered him to me, and I was duly thankful. He was a morsel I liked to look at. He opened up himself, bless you! and bragged about his fine body of virgin timber. I looked bored, but let him run on till he was tired; then I said:
“'Well, Mosely, what do you intend to do with your white elephant? You know it's not just the sort Barnum is looking for.'
“He kind o' blinked at that, but he said, 'I've half a notion to sell. The truth is, I've got the finest investment open to me that I ever had. If I could afford to wait a few years I could coin money out of this property, but I believe in turning money quick.'
“'So do I,' said I, and watched him flirt about in the frying-pan. Then I said, 'What is the price you hold it at?'
“'I thought,' said he, 'that I ought to get as much as I paid.'
“'As much as you paid Abe Tompkins and Perkins?' I said, with a grin. 'Do you think you could possibly sell a piece of land for as much as those sharks? If you can, you'd better go in the real-estate business. You'd coin money. Why, they yanked two thousand out of you, didn't they?'
“'I don't really think Perkins had anything to do with it,' he said. 'That's just a report out about old man Bishop's deal. I bought my land on my own judgment.'
“'Well,' I said, 'how will fifteen hundred round wheels strike you?'
“'I believe I 'll take you up,' he said. 'I want to make that other investment.' So we closed and I went at once to have the deed recorded before he had a chance to change his mind. Now, you see, I'm interested in the thing, and I'm going to help you put it through. If your folks want the loan, bring them in in the morning, and if we can manage our Yankee just right, we 'll get the money.”
9151
FTER supper that evening the Bishops sat out on the veranda to get the cool air before retiring. There was only one light burning in the house, and that was the little, smoky lamp in the kitchen, where the cook was washing the dishes. Bishop sat near his wife, his coat off and vest unbuttoned, his chair tilted back against the weatherboarding. Abner Daniel, who had been trying ever since supper to cheer them up in regard to their financial misfortune, sat smoking in his favorite chair near the banisters, on top of which he now and then placed his stockinged feet.
“You needn't talk that away, brother Ab,” sighed Mrs. Bishop. “Yo're jest doin' it out o' goodness o' heart. We might as well face the truth; we've got to step down from the position we now hold, an' present way o' livin'. And thar's Adele. Pore child! She said in 'er last letter that she'd cried 'er eyes out. She was bent on comin' home, but 'er uncle William won't let 'er. He said she'd not do any good.”
“An' she wouldn't,” put in Bishop, gruffly. “The sight o' you an' Alan before me all the time is enough to show me what a fool I've been.”
“You are both crossin' bridges 'fore you git to 'em,” said Abner. “A lots o' folks has come out'n scrapes wuss'n what you are in, ten to one. I'ain't never mentioned it, but my land hain't got no mortgage on it, an' I could raise a few scads, to he'p keep up yore intrust an' taxes till you could see yore way ahead.”
“Huh!” snorted his brother-in-law. “Do you reckon I'd let as old a man as you are, an' no blood kin, stake his little all to help me out of a hole that is gittin' deeper an' wider all the time—a hole I deliberately got myse'f into? Well, not much!”
“I wouldn't listen to that nuther,” declared Mrs. Bishop, “but not many men would offer it.”
They heard a horse trotting down the road and all bent their heads to listen. “It's Alan,” said Abner. “I was thinkin' it was time he was showin' up.”
Mrs. Bishop rose wearily to order the cook to get his supper ready, and returned to the veranda just as Alan Was coming from the stable. He sat down on the steps, lashing the legs of his dusty trousers with his riding-whip. It was plain that he had something of importance to say and they all waited in impatient silence.
“Father,” he said, “I've had a talk with Rayburn Miller about your land; he and I have lately been working on a little idea of mine. You know there are people who will lend money on real-estate. How would it suit you to borrow twenty-five thousand dollars on that land, giving that alone as security.”
There was a startled silence, and Bishop broke it in a tone of great irritation.
“Do you take me fer a plumb fool?” he asked. “When I want you an' Miller to dabble in my business I 'll call on you. Twenty-five thousand, I say! If I could exchange every acre of it fer enough to lift the mortgage on this farm an' keep a roof over our heads I'd do it gladly. Pshaw!”
There was another silence, and then Alan began to explain. He almost seemed to his father and mother to be some stranger, as he sat there in the half dark ness, his eyes hidden by the brim of his soft hat, and told them how he had worried over their trouble till the idea of building a railroad had come to him. Then Miller had become interested, after discouraging him, and had gone to Atlanta to see Wilson, and it remained for the next day to decide what the outcome would be in regard to the big loan.
While he talked Mrs. Bishop sat like a figure cut from stone, and Bishop leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his big face in his hands. It was as if a tornado of hope had blown over him, shaking him through and through.
“You been doin' this to he'p me out,” he gasped, “an' I never so much as axed yore opinion one way or another.”
“I'd rather see you make money out of that purchase than anything in the world,” said his son, with feeling. “People have made fun of you in your old age, but if we can build the road and you can get your hundred thousand dollars some of these folks will laugh on the other side of their faces.”
Bishop was so full of excitement and emotion that he dared not trust his voice to utterance. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, pretending to be calm, though his alert wife saw that he was quivering in every limb.
“Oh, Alan,” she cried, “don't you see how excited your pa is? You ought not to raise his hopes this way on such an uncertainty. As Mr. Miller said, there may be some slip and we'd be right back where we was, and feel wuss than ever.”
Bishop rose from his chair and began to walk to and fro on the veranda. “It ain't possible,” they heard him saying. “I won't git out as easy as that—I jest cayn't!”
“Perhaps it would be wrong to expect too much,” said Alan, “but I was obliged to tell you what we are going in town for to-morrow.”
Bishop wheeled and paused before them. “Ef Wilson puts up the money I'd have enough to lift the mortgage an' a clean twenty thousand besides to put in some good investment.”
Aunt Maria, the colored cook, came out and timidly announced that Alan's supper was on the table, but no one heard her. She crossed the veranda and touched the young man on the shoulder.
“Supper's raidy, Marse Alan,” she said, “en it's gittin' col' ergin.”
He rose and followed her into the dining-room and sat down in his accustomed place at the long table. When he had eaten he went back to the group on the veranda.
“I think I 'll go up to bed,” he told them. “My ride and running around at Darley has made me very tired. Father, get all your papers together and let's take an early start in the morning.”
But despite his feeling of weariness, Alan found he could not sleep. The bright moonlight, streaming in at his window, seemed a disturbing element. About eleven o'clock he heard some one turning the windlass at the well, and later the clatter of falling utensils in the kitchen, and the dead thump of a heavy tread below. He knew then that his father was up, and, like himself, unable to sleep. Presently Mrs. Bishop slipped into his room.
“Are you awake, son?” She spoke in a whisper that she might not disturb him if he were asleep.
He laughed. “I haven't closed my eyes; it seems to me I have gone over my conversation with Miller a thousand times.”
“I've give up tryin',” she told him, with a gratified little laugh. “I think I could, though, if your pa would 'a' kept still. He's in the kitchen now makin' him a cup o' strong coffee. He's been over them papers ever since you come up-stairs. Alan, I'm actually afeerd he couldn't stand it if that man didn't put up the money.”
“It would go hard with him,” said Alan. “Has Uncle Ab gone to sleep?”
“No; he's settin' in the door o' his room chawin' tobacco; he lays the blame on yore pa. I don't think I ever saw him so irritated before. But nobody ain't to blame but hisse'f. He's jest excited like the rest of us. I've seed 'im lie an' snore with a bigger noise goin' on around 'im 'an yore pa is a-makin'.”
9156
S Henry, Aunt Maria's husband, who was the chief farm-hand, was busy patching fences the next morning, Bishop sent over for Pole Baker to drive the spring-wagon. Alan sat beside Pole, and Abner and Bishop and Mrs. Bishop occupied the rear seats.
Alan knew he could trust Pole, drunk or sober, and he confided his plans to the flattered fellow's ears. Pole seemed to weigh all the chances for and against success in his mind as he sat listening, a most grave and portentous expression on his massive face.
“My opinion is the feller 'll be thar as shore as preachin',” he said. “But whether you git his wad or not, that's another question. Miller's as sharp as a briar, an', as he says, if Wilson gits to talkin' about that land to any o' these hill-Billies they 'll bu'st the trade or die tryin'. Jest let 'em heer money's about to change hands an' it 'll make 'em so durn jealous they 'll swear a lie to keep it away from anybody they know. That's human natur'.”
“I believe you are right,” said Alan, pulling a long face; “and I'm afraid Wilson will want to make some inquiries before he closes.”
“Like as not,” opined the driver; “but what I'd do, ef I was a-runnin' it, would be to git some feller to strike up with 'im accidental-like, an' liter'ly fill 'im to the neck with good things about the property without him ever dreamin' he was bein' worked.”
The two exchanged glances. Alan had never looked at the man so admiringly. At that moment he seemed a giant of shrewdness, as well as that of physical strength.
“I believe you are right, Pole,” he said, thoughtfully.
“That's what I am, an', what's more, I'm the one that could do the fillin', without him ever knowin' I had a funnel in his mouth. If I can't do it, I 'll fill my hat with saft mud an' put it on.”
Alan smiled warmly. “I 'll mention it to Miller,” he said. “Yes, you could do it, Pole—if any man on earth could.”
Driving up to Miller's office they found the door open, and the owner came out with a warm smile of greeting and aided Mrs. Bishop to alight. “Well,” he smiled, when they had taken seats in the office. “We have gained the first step towards victory. Wilson is at the hotel. I saw his name on the register this morning.”
The elder Bishops drew a breath of relief. The old man grounded his heavy walking-stick suddenly, as if it had slipped through his inert fingers.
“I'm trustin' you boys to pull me through,” he said, with a shaky laugh. “I hain't never treated Alan right, an' I'm heer to confess it. I 'lowed I was the only one in our layout with any business sense.”
“So you are willing to accept the loan?” said Miller.
“Willin'? I reckon I am. I never slept one wink last night fer feer some 'n' 'll interfere with it.”
Miller reflected a moment and then said: “I am afraid of only one thing, and that is this: Not one man in a million will make a trade of this size without corroborating the statements made by the people he is dealing with. Wilson is at breakfast by this time, and after he is through he may decide to nose around a little before coming to me. I'm afraid to go after him; he would think I was over-anxious. The trouble is that he may run upon somebody from out in the mountains—there are a lot in town already—and get to talking. Just one word about your biting off more than you can chaw, Mr. Bishop, would make 'im balk like a mean mule. He thinks I'm favoring him now, but let him get the notion that you haven't been holding that land for at least a hundred thousand an' the thing would bu'st like a bubble.”
Alan mentioned Pole Baker's proposition. Miller thought it over for a moment, his brow wrinkled, and then he said: “Good!—a good idea, but you must call Pole in and let me give him a few pointers. By George! he could keep Wilson away from dangerous people anyway.”
Alan went after Pole, and Miller took him into his consultation-room in the rear, where they remained for about fifteen minutes. When they came out Pole's face was very grave. “I won't forget a thing,” he said to Miller. “I understand exactly what you want. When I git through with 'im he 'll want that land bad enough to pay anything fer it, an' he won't dream I'm in cahoot with you, nuther. I can manage that. I ain't no fool ef I do have fits.”
“Do you remember my description of him?” asked Miller.
“You bet I do—thick-set, about fifty, bald, red-faced, sharp, black eyes, iron gray hair, an' mighty nigh always with a cigar in his mouth.”
“That's right,” laughed Miller, “now do your work, and we won't forget you. By all means keep him away from meddlesome people.”
When Pole had left the office and Miller had resumed his revolving-chair Mrs. Bishop addressed him, looking straight into his eyes.
“I don't see,” she said, in a timid, hesitating way, and yet with a note of firmness dominating her tone—“I don't see why we have to go through all this trickery to make the trade. Ef the land is good security fer the money we needn't be afeerd of what the man will find out. Ef it ain' t good security I don't want his money as fer as I'm concerned.”
“I was jest thinkin' that, too,” chimed in her husband, throwing a troubled glance all round. “I want money to help me out o' my scrape, but I don't want to trick no man, Yankee or what not, into toatin' my loads. As Betsy says, it seems to me if the land's wuth the money we needn't make such a great to-do. I'm afeerd I won't feel exactly right about it.”
The young men exchanged alarmed glances.
“You don't understand,” said Miller, lamely, but he seemed to be unprepared for views so heretical to financial dealings, and could not finish what he had started to say.
“Why,” said Alan, testily, “the land is worth all Wilson can make out of it with the aid of his capital and the railroad he proposes to lay here. Father, you have spent several years looking up the best timbered properties, and getting good titles to it, and to a big lumber company a body of timber like you hold is no small tiling. We don't want to cheat him, but we do want to keep him from trying to cheat us by getting the upper hand. Rayburn thinks if he finds out we are hard up he 'll try to squeeze us to the lowest notch.”
“Well,” sighed Mrs. Bishop, “I'm shore I never had no idea we'd resort to gittin' Pole Baker to tole anybody around like a hog after a yeer o' corn. I 'lowed we was going to make a open-and-shut trade that we could be proud of, an' stop folk's mouths about Alfred's foolish dealin' s. But,” she looked at Abner, who stood in the doorway leading to the consultation-room, “I 'll do whatever brother Ab thinks is right. I never knowed 'im to take undue advantage of anybody.”
They all looked at Abner, who was smiling broadly.
“Well, I say git his money,” he replied, with a short, impulsive laugh—“git his money, and then ef you find he's starvin', hand 'im back what you feel you don't need. I look on a thing like this sorter like I did on scramblin' fer the upper holt in war-times. I remember I shot straight at a feller that was climbin' up the enemy's breastworks on his all-fours. I said to myse'f, ef this ball strikes you right, old chap, 'fore you drap over the bank, yo're one less agin the Confederacy; ef it don't you kin pop away at me. I don't think I give 'im anything but a flesh-wound in the back—beca'se he jest sagged down a little an' crawled on—an' that's about the wust you could do fer Wilson. I believe he ort to hold the bag awhile. Alf's hung on to it till his fingers ache an' he's weak at the knees. I never did feel like thar was any harm in passin' a counterfeit bill that some other chap passed on me. Ef the government, with all its high-paid help, cayn't keep crooked shinplasters from slidin' under our noses, it ortn't to kick agin our lookin' out fer ourse'ves.”
“You needn't lose any sleep about the Southern Land and Timber Company, Mrs. Bishop,” said Miller. “They will take care of themselves—in fact, we 'll have to keep our eyes peeled to watch them even if we get this loan. Wilson didn't come up here for his health.”
“Oh, mother's all right,” said Alan, “and so is father, but they must not chip in with that sort of talk before Wilson.”
“Oh no, you mustn't,” said Miller. “In fact, I think you'd better let me and Alan do the talking. You see, if you sit perfectly quiet he 'll think you are reluctant about giving such big security for such a small amount of money, and he will trade faster.”
“Oh, I'm perfectly willin' to keep quiet,” agreed the old man, who now seemed better satisfied.
Pole Baker left the office with long, swinging strides. There was an entrance to the Johnston House through a long corridor opening on the street, and into this Pole slouched. The hotel office was empty save for the clerk who stood behind the counter, looking over the letters in the pigeon-holed key-rack on the wall. There was a big gong overhead which was rung by pulling a cord. It was used for announcing meals and calling the porter. A big china bowl on the counter was filled with wooden tooth-picks, and there was a show-case containing cigars. Pole glanced about cautiously without being noticed by the clerk, and then withdrew into the corridor, where he stood for several minutes, listening. Presently the dining-room door opened and Wilson strolled out and walked up to the counter.
“What sort of cigars have you got?” he said to the clerk.
“Nothing better than ten, three for a quarter,” was the respectful reply, as the clerk recognized the man who had asked for the best room in the house.
Wilson thrust his fingers into his vest-pocket and drew out a cigar. “I guess I can make what I have last me,” he said, transferring his glance to Pole Baker, who had shambled across the room and leaned heavily over the open register. “Want to buy any chickins—fine fryin' size?” he asked the clerk.
“Well, we are in the market,” was the answer. “Where are they?”
“I didn't fetch 'em in to-day,” said Pole, dryly. “I never do till I know what they are a-bringin'. You'd better make a bid on a dozen of 'em anyway. They are the finest ever raised on Upper Holly Creek, jest this side o' whar old man Bishop's lumber paradise begins.”
Pole was looking out of the corner of his eye at the stranger, and saw his hand, which was in the act of striking a match, suddenly stay itself.
“We don't bid on produce till we see it,” said the clerk.
“Well, I reckon no harm was done by my axin',” said Pole, who felt the eyes of the stranger on him.
“Do you live near here?” asked Wilson, with a smile half of apology at addressing a stranger, even of Pole's humble stamp.
“No.” Pole laughed and waved his hand towards the mountains in the west, which were plainly discernible in the clear morning light. “No, I'm a mountain shanghai. I reckon it's fifteen mile on a bee-line to my shack.”
“Didn't you say you lived near old Mr. Bishop's place?” asked Wilson, moving towards the open door which led to the veranda.
“I don't know which place o' his'n you mean,” said Pole when they were alone outside and Wilson had lighted his cigar. “That old scamp owns the whole o' creation out our way. Well, I 'll take that back, fer he don't own any land that hain't loaded down with trees, but he's got territory enough. Some thinks he's goin' to seceed from the United States an' elect himself President of his own country.”
Wilson laughed, and then he said: “Have you got a few minutes to spare?”
“I reckon I have,” said Pole, “ef you've got the mate to that cigar.”
Wilson laughed again as he fished the desired article from his pocket and gave it and a match to Pole. Then he leaned against the heavy railing of the banisters. “I may as well tell you,” he said, “I'm a dealer in lumber myself, and I'd like to know what kind of timber you have out there.”
Pole pulled at the cigar, thrust it well into the corner of his mouth with the fire end smoking very near his left eye, and looked thoughtful. “To tell you the truth, my friend,” he said, “I railly believe you'd be wastin' time to go over thar.”
“Oh, you think so.” It was a vocal start on the part of Wilson.
“Yes, sir; the truth is, old man Bishop has simply raked into his dern clutch ever' acre o' fine timber out that away. Now ef you went east, over t'other side o' the mountains, you mought pick out some good timber; but as I said, old man Bishop's got it all in a bag out our way. Saw-mill?”
“No, I don't run a saw-mill,” said Wilson, with an avaricious sparkle in his eye. “I sometimes buy timbered lands for a speculation, that's all.”
Pole laughed. “I didn't see how you could be a saw-mill man an' smoke cigars like this an' wear them clothes. I never knowed a saw-mill man to make any money.”
“I suppose this Mr. Bishop is buying to sell again,” said Wilson, tentatively. “People generally have some such idea when they put money into such property.” Pole looked wise and thoughtful. “I don't know whether he is or not,” he said. “But my opinion is that he 'll hold on to it till he's in the ground. He evidently thinks a good time's a-comin'! Thar was a feller out thar t'other day with money to throw at cats; he's been tryin' to honeyfuggle the old man into a trade, but I don't think he made a deal with 'im.”
“Where was the man from?” Wilson spoke uneasily. “I don't railly know, but he ain't a-goin' to give up. He told Neil Fulmore at his store that he was goin' home to see his company an' write the old man a proposition that ud fetch 'im ef thar was any trade in 'im.”
Wilson pulled out his watch.
“Do you happen to know where Mr. Rayburn Miller's law office is?” he asked.
“Yes; it's right round the corner. I know whar all thewhitemen in this town do business, an' he's as white as they make 'em, an' as straight as a shingle.”
“He's an acquaintance of mine,” said Wilson. “I thought I'd run in and see him before I leave.”
“It's right round the corner, an' down the fust side street, towards the court-house. I 'ain't got nothin' to do; I 'll p'int it out.”
“Thank you,” said Wilson, and they went out of the house and down the street together, Pole puffing vigorously at his cigar in the brisk breeze.
“Thar you are,” said Pole, pointing to Miller's sign. “Good-day, sir; much obleeged fer this smoke,” and with his head in the air Pole walked past the office without looking in.
“Good-morning,” exclaimed Miller, as Wilson entered. “You are not an early riser like we are here in the country.” He introduced Wilson all round, and then gave him a chair near his desk and facing him rather than the others.
“This is the gentleman who owns the property, I believe,” said Wilson, suavely, as he indicated Bishop.
Miller nodded, and a look of cunning dawned in his clear eye.
“Yes. I have just been explaining to Mr. and Mrs. Bishop that the mere signing of a paper such as will be necessary to secure the loan will not bind them at all in the handling of their property. You know how cautious older people are nowadays in regard to legal matters. Now, Alan here, their son, understands the matter thoroughly, and his mind is not at all disturbed.”
Wilson fell into the preliminary trap. “Oh no; it's not a binding thing at all,” he said. “The payment of the money back to us releases you—that is, of course,” Wilson recovered himself, “if we make the loan.”
Several hearts in the room sank, but Miller's face did not alter in the slightest. “Oh, of course, if the loan is made,” he said.
Wilson put his silk hat on the top of Miller's desk, and flicked the ashes from his cigar into a cuspidor. Then he looked at Mrs. Bishop suddenly—“Does the lady object to smoking?”
“Not at all,” said the old lady—“not at all.”
There was a pause as Wilson relighted his cigar and pulled at it in silence. A step sounded on the sidewalk and Trabue put his head in at the door. Miller could have sworn at him, but he smiled. “Good-morning, Squire,” he said.
“I see you are busy,” said the intruder, hastily.
“Just a little, Squire. I 'll see you in a few minutes.”
“Oh, all right.” The old lawyer moved on down the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets.
Miller brought up the subject again with easy adroitness. “I mentioned your proposition to my clients—the proposition that they allow you the refusal of the land at one hundred thousand, and they have finally come round to it. As I told them, they could not possibly market a thing like that as easily and for as good a price as a company regularly in the business. I may have been wrong in giving such advice, but it was the way I felt about it.”
Without realizing it, Wilson tripped in another hole dug by Miller's inventive mind.
“They couldn't do half as well with it,” the Boston man said. “In fact, no one could, as I told you, pay as much for the property as we can, considering the railroad we have to move somewhere, and our gigantic facilities for handling lumber in America and abroad. Still I think, and our directors think, a hundred thousand is a big price.”
Miller laughed as if amused. “That's five dollars an acre, you know, but I'm not here to boom Mr. Bishop's timber-land. In fact, all this has grown out of my going down to Atlanta to borrow twenty-five thousand dollars on the property. I think I would have saved time if I hadn't run on you down there, Mr. Wilson.”
Wilson frowned and looked at his cigar.
“We are willing,” said he, “to make the loan at five per cent, per annum on two conditions.”
“Well, out with them,” laughed Miller. “What are they?”
“First,” said Wilson, slowly and methodically, “we want the refusal of the property at one hundred thousand dollars.”
A thrill of triumph passed over the silent group. Alan saw his father's face fill with sudden hope, and then it seemed to stand in abeyance as if doubt had already mastered it. Abner Daniel caught his beard in his stiff fingers and slowly slid them downward. Mrs. Bishop's bonnet hid her face, but her fingers were twitching excitedly as they toyed with the fringe of her shawl.
Miller's indifference was surprising. “For what length of time do you want the refusal of the property at that figure?” he asked, almost in a tone of contempt.
Wilson hung fire, his brow wrinkled thoughtfully.
“Till it is decided positively,” he got out finally, “whether we can get a charter and a right of way to the property.”
To those who were not following the details as closely as were Alan and Miller the reply of the latter fell discouragingly, even Abner Daniel glared in open horror of what he regarded as an unfavorable turn in the proceedings.
“That's entirely too indefinite to suit my clients,” said the lawyer. “Do you suppose, Mr. Wilson, that they want to hang their property up on a hook like that? Why, if you didn't attend to pushing your road through—well, they would simply be in your hands, the Lord only knows how long.”
“But we intend to do all we can to shove it through,” said Wilson, with a flush.
“You know that is not a business-like proposition, Mr. Wilson,” said Miller, with a bland smile. “Why, it amounts to an option without any limit at all.”
“Oh, I don't know,” said Wilson, lamely. “Mr. Bishop will be interested just as we are in getting a right of way through—in fact, it would insure us of his help. We can't buy a right of way; we can't afford it. The citizens through whose property the road runs must be persuaded to contribute the land for the purpose, and Mr. Bishop, of course, has influence up here with his neighbors.”
“Still he would be very imprudent,” said Miller, “to option his property without any limit. Now here's what we are willing to do. As long as you hold Mr. Bishop's note for twenty-five thousand dollars unpaid, you shall have the refusal of the land at one hundred thousand dollars. Now take my advice”—Miller was smiling broadly—“let it stand at that.”
Wilson reflected for a moment, and then he said: “All right; let that go. The other condition is this—and it need be only a verbal promise—that nothing be said about my company's making this loan nor our securing the refusal of the property.”
“That will suit us,” said Miller. “Mr. Bishop' doesn't care to have the public know his business. Of course, the mortgage will have to be recorded at the court-house, but that need not attract attention. I don't blame Mr. Bishop,” went on Miller, in a half-confidential tone. “These people are the worst gossips you ever saw. If you meet any of them they will tell you that Mr. Bishop has bu'sted himself wide open by buying so much timber-land, but this loan will make him as solid as the Bank of England. The people don't understand his dealings, and they are trying to take it out on him by blasting his reputation for being one of the solidest men in his county.”
“Well, that's all, I believe,” said Wilson, and Miller drew a blank sheet of legal-cap paper to him and began to write. Half an hour later the papers were signed and Miller carelessly handed Wilson's crisp pink check on a New York bank to Mr. Bishop.
“There you are, Mr. Bishop,” he said, with a smile; “you didn't want any one else to have a finger in that big pie of yours over there, but you needed money, and I 'll tell you as a friend that a hundred thousand cash down will be about as well as you can do with that land. It takes money, and lots of it, to make money, and Mr. Wilson's company can move the thing faster than you can.”
“That's a fact,” said Wilson, in a tone that betrayed self-gratification. “Now we must all pull together for the railroad.” He rose and turned to Miller. “Will you come with me to record the paper?”
“Certainly,” said Miller, and they both left together.
The Bishop family were left alone, and the strain being lifted, they found themselves almost wholly exhausted.
“Is it all over?” gasped the old woman, standing up and grasping her son's arm.
“We've got his money,” Alan told her, with a glad smile, “and a fair chance for more.”
The pink check was fluttering in old Bishop's hand. Already the old self-willed look that brooked no interference with his personal affairs was returning to his wrinkled face.
“I 'll go over to Craig's bank an' deposit it,” he said to Alan. “It 'll take a day or two to collect it, but he'd let me check on it right now fer any reasonable amount.”
“I believe I'd ask him not to mention the deposit,” suggested Alan.
“Huh! I reckon I've got sense enough to do that.”
“I thought you intended to pay off the mortgage on our farm the fust thing,” ventured Mrs. Bishop.
“We can' t do it till the note's due next January,” said Bishop, shortly. “I agreed to keep the money a yeer, an' Martin Doe 'll make me hold to it. But what do you reckon I care as long as I've got some 'n' to meet it with?”
Mrs. Bishop's face fell. “I'd feel better about it if it was cleer,” she faltered. “But the Lord knows we ort to feel thankful to come out as we have. If it hadn't been fer Alan—Mr. Miller said that Alan—”
“Ef you all hadn't made sech a eternal row,” broke in Bishop, testily, “I'd 'a' had more timber-land than this. Colonel Barclay has as fine a strip as any I got, an' he's bantered me for a trade time an' agin.”
Abner Daniel seldom sneered at anybody, no matter what the provocation was, but it seemed impossible for him to refrain from it now.
“You've been lookin' fer the last three months like a man that needed more land,” he said. “Jest no furder back 'an last night you 'lowed ef you could git enough fer yore folly to raise the debt off'n yore farm you'd die happy, an' now yo' re a-frettin' beca'se you didn't buy up the sides o' the earth an' give nobody else a foothold. Le' me tell you the truth, even ef itdoeshurt a little. Ef Alan hadn't thought o' this heer railroad idea, you'd 'a' been the biggest human pancake that ever lay flat in its own grease.”
“I hain't said nothin' to the contrary,” admitted Bishop, who really took the reproof well. “Alan knows what I think about it.”
Then Bishop and his wife went to Craig's bank, and a moment later Miller returned, rubbing his hands with satisfaction.
“We got through, and he's gone to catch his train,” he said.
“It worked as smooth as goose-grease. I wonder what Pole Baker said to him, or if he saw him. I have an idea he did, from the way Wilson danced to our music.”
“Heer's Pole now,” said Abner, from the door. “Come in heer, you triflin' loafer, an' give an account o' yorese'f.”
“I seed 'im makin' fer the train,” laughed Pole, “an' so I sneaked in to see what you-uns done. He walked like he owned the town.”
“It went through like lightning, without a hitch or a bobble,” Abner told him. “We was jest a-won-derin' what you shot into 'im.”
“I hardly know,” Pole sniggered. “I got to talkin' to 'im an' it looked to me like I was chippin' off tan-bark with the sharpest tool I ever handled. Every lick seemed to draw blood, an' he stood an' tuck it without a start or a shiver. I said to myse'f: 'Pole Baker, yo're nothin' but a rag-tag, bob-tail mountain Hoosier, an' he's a slick duck from up North, with a gold watch-chain an' a silk beaver, but he's a lappin' up what you say like a hungry kitten does a pan o' milk. Go it, old boy, an' ef you win, you 'll he'p the finest man out o' trouble—I mean Alan Bishop, by gum—that ever lived.' It seemed to me I was filled with the fire of heaven. I could 'a' been at it yet—fer I'd jest started—but he drawed his watch on me, an' made a shoot fer this office, me with 'im, fer feer some yokel would strike up with 'im. I mighty nigh shoved 'im in at the door.”
“You did noble,” said Miller, while Pole and Alan were silently clasping hands. “Now I told you we wouldn't forget you. Go down to Wimbley's and tell him to give you the best suit of clothes he's got, and to charge them to me 'n' Alan.”
Pole drew himself up to his full height, and stared at the lawyer with flashing eyes.
“Damn yore soul,” he said; “don't you say a thing like that to me agin. I 'll have you know I've got feelin' s as well as you or anybody else. I'd cut off this right arm an' never wince to do Alan Bishop a favor, but I 'll be danged ef anybody kin look me over after I've done alittleone an' pay me for it in store-clothes. I don't like that one bit, an' I ain't afeerd to say so.”
“I didn't mean any offence, Pole,” apologized Miller, most humbly.
“Well, you wouldn't 'a' said it tosomemen,” growled Pole, “I know that. When I want pay fer a thing like that, I 'll jest go to that corner o' the street an' look down at that rock-pile, whar Alan found me one day an' paid me out jest to keep me from bein' the laughin'-stock o' this town.”
Alan put his arm over his shoulder. “Rayburn didn't mean any harm,” he said, gently. “You are both my friends, and we've had a big victory to-day; let's not have hard feelings.”
Pole hung his head stubbornly and Miller extended his hand. Abner Daniel was an attentive listener, a half smile on his face.
“Say, Pole,” he said, with a little laugh, “you run down to Wimbley's an' tell 'im not to wrop up that suit. I'm a-owin' him a bill, an' he kin jest credit the value of it on my account.”
Pole laughed heartily and thrust his big hand into Miller's.
“Uncle Ab,” he said, “you'd make a dog laugh.”
“I believe yo' re right,” said Abner, significantly, and then they all roared at Pole's expense.
The next day Alan received the following letter from Dolly Barclay:
“DEAR ALAN,—Rayburn Miller told me in confidence of your wonderful success yesterday, and I simply cried with joy. I knew—I felt that you would win, and this is, as he says, a glorious beginning. I am so proud of you, and I am so full of hope to-day. All our troubles will come out right some day, and now that I know you love me I can wait. Rayburn would not have confided so much to me, but he said, while he would not let me tell father anything about the prospective railroad, he wanted me to prevent him from selling his tract of land near yours. You know my father consults me about all his business, and he will not dispose of that property without my knowing of it. Oh, wouldn't it he a fine joke on him to have him profit by your good judgment.”
Alan was at the little post-office in Filmore's store when he received the letter, and he folded it and restored it to its envelope with a heart filled with love and tenderness. As he walked home through the woods, it seemed to him that everything in nature was ministering to his boundless happiness. He felt as light as air as he strode along. “God bless her dear, dear little soul!” he said, fervently.