9196
HAT afternoon the breeze swerved round from the south, bringing vague threats About three o' clock Alan, his his mother and father were in the front yard, looking at the house, with a view to making some alterations that had been talked of for several years past.
“I never had my way in anything before,” Mrs. Bishop was running on, in the pleased voice of a happy child, “and I'm glad you are goin' to let me this once. I want the new room to jut out on this side from the parlor, and have a bay-window, and we must cut a wide foldin'-door between the two rooms. Then the old veranda comes down and the new one must have a double floor, like Colonel Sprague's on the river, except ours will have round, white columns instead o' square, if they do cost a trifle more.”
“She knows what she wants,” said Bishop, with one of his infrequent smiles, “and I reckon we'd save a little to let her boss the job, ef she don't hender the carpenters by too much talk. I don't want 'em to put in a stick o' lumber that ain't the best.”
“I'm glad she's going to have her way,” said Alan. “She's wanted a better house for twenty years, and she deserves it.”
“I don't believe in sech fine feathers,” said Bishop, argumentatively. “I'd a leetle ruther wait till we see whether Wilson's a-goin' to put that road through—then wecouldafford to put on a dab or two o' style. I don't know but I'd move down to Atlanta an' live alongside o' Bill, an' wear a claw-hammer coat an' a dicky cravat fer a change.”
“Then you mought run fer the legislatur',” spoke up Abner Daniel, who had been an amused listener, “an' git up a law to pen up mad dogs at the dangerous part o' the yeer. Alf, I've always thought you'd be a' ornament to the giddy whirl down thar. William was ever' bit as green as you are when he fust struck the town. But he had the advantage o' growin' up an' sorter ripenin' with the place. It ud be hard on you at yore time o' life.”
At this juncture Alan called their attention to a horseman far down the road. “It looks like Ray Miller's mare,” he remarked. “This is one of his busy days; he can' t be coming to fish.”
“Railroad news,” suggested Abner. “It's a pity you hain't connected by telegraph.”
They were all now sure that it was Miller, and with no little curiosity they moved nearer the gate.
“By gum! he's been givin' his mare the lash,” said Abner. “She's fairly kivered with froth.”
“Hello, young man,” Alan called out, as Miller dismounted at a hitching-post just outside the fence and fastened his bridle-rein. “Glad to see you; come in.”
Miller bowed and smiled as he opened the gate and came forward to shake hands.
“We are certainly glad you came, Mr. Miller,” said Mrs. Bishop, with all her quaint cordiality. “Ever since that day in the office I've wanted a chance to show you how much we appreciate what you done fer us. Brother Ab will bear me out when I say we speak of it mighty nigh ever'day.”
Miller wore an inexpressible look of embarrassment, which he tried to lose in the act of shaking hands all round the group, but his platitudes fell to the ground. Abner, the closest observer among them, already had his brows drawn together as he pondered Miller's unwonted lack of ease.
“Bring any fishing-tackle?” asked Alan.
“No, I didn't,” said the lawyer, jerking himself to that subject awkwardly. “The truth is, I only ran out for a little ride. I've got to get back.”
“Then itisbusiness, as brother Ab said,” put in Mrs. Bishop, tentatively.
Miller lowered his eyes to the ground and then raised them to Alan's face.
“Yes, it's railroad business,” said Abner, his voice vibrant with suspense.
“And it's not favorable,” said Alan, bravely. “I can see that by your looks.”
Miller glanced at his mare, and lashed the leg of his top-boots with his riding-whip. “No, I have bad news, but it's not about the railroad. I could have written, but I thought I'd better come myself.”
“Adele!” gasped Mrs. Bishop. “You have heard—”
“No, she's well,” said Miller. “It's about the money you put in Craig's bank.”
“What about that?” burst from old Bishop's startled lips.
“Craig claims Winship has absconded with all the cash. The bank has failed.”
“Failed!” The word was a moan from Bishop, and for a moment no one spoke. A negro woman at the wash-place behind the house was using a batting-stick on some clothing, and the dull blows came to them distinctly.
“Is that so, Ray?” asked Alan, calm but pale to the lips.
“I'm sorry to say it is.”
“Can anything at all be done?”
“I've done everything possible already. We have been telegraphing the Atlanta police all morning about tracing Winship, but they don't seem much interested. They think he's had too big a start on us. You see, he's been gone two days and nights. Craig says he thought he was on a visit to relatives till he discovered the loss last night.”
“It simply spells ruin, old man,” said Alan, grimly. “I can see that.”
Miller said nothing for a moment—then:
“It's just as bad as it could be, my boy,” he said. “I see no reason to raise false hopes. There is a strong feeling against Craig, and no little suspicion, owing to the report that he has been speculating heavily, but he has thrown himself on the protection of his church, and even some of his fellow-members, who lose considerably, are standing by him.”
Here old Bishop, with compressed lips, turned and walked unsteadily into the house. With head hanging low and eyes flashing strangely, his wife followed him. At the steps she paused, her sense of hospitality transcending her despair. “You must stay to early supper, anyway, Mr. Miller,” she said. “You could ride back in the cool o' the evening.”
“Thank you, but I must hurry right back, Mrs. Bishop,” Miller said.
“And Dolly—does she know?” asked Alan, when his mother had disappeared and Abner had walked to the hitching-post, and stood as if thoughtfully inspecting Miller's mare. Miller told him of their conversation that morning, and Alan' s face grew tender and more resigned.
“She's a brick!” said Miller. “She's a woman I now believe in thoroughly—she and one other.”
“Then thereisanother?” asked Alan, almost cheerfully, as an effect of the good news that had accompanied the bad.
“Yes. I see things somewhat differently of late,” admitted Miller, in an evasive, non-committal tone. “Dolly Barclay opened my eyes, and when they were open I saw—well, the good qualities of some one else. I may tell you about her some day, but I shall not now. Get your horse and come to town with me. We must be ready for any emergency.”
Abner Daniel came towards them. “I don't want to harm nobody's character,” he said; “but whar my own kin is concerned, I'm up an' wide awake. I don't know what you think, but I hain't got a speck o' faith in Craig hisse'f. He done me a low, sneakin' trick once that I ketched up with. He swore it was a mistake, but it wasn't. He's a bad egg—you mind what I say; he won't do.”
“It may be as you say, Mr. Daniel,” returned Miller, with a lawyer's reserve on a point unsubstantiated by evidence, “but even if he has the money hidden away, how are we to get it from him?”
“I'd find a way,” retorted Daniel, hotly, “so I would.”
“We 'll do all we can,” said Miller.
Daniel strode into the house and Alan went after his horse. Miller stood at the gate, idly tapping his boot with his whip.
“Poor Mrs. Bishop!” he said, his eyes on the house; “how very much she resembled Adele just now, and she is bearing it just like the little girl would. I reckon they 'll write her the bad news. I wish I was there to—soften the blow. It will wring her heart.”
9201
HAT evening after supper the family remained, till bedtime, in the big, bare-looking dining-room, the clean, polished floors of which gleamed in the light of a little fire in the big chimney. Bishop's chair was tilted back against the wall in a dark corner, and Mrs. Bishop sat knitting mechanically. Abner was reading—or trying to read—a weekly paper at the end of the dining-table, aided by a dimly burning glass-lamp. Aunt Maria had removed the dishes and, with no little splash and clatter, was washing them in the adjoining kitchen.
Suddenly Abner laid down his paper and began to try to console them for their loss. Mrs. Bishop listened patiently, but Bishop sat in the very coma of despair, unconscious of what was going on around him.
“Alf,” Abner called out, sharply, “don't you remember what a close-fisted scamp I used to be about the time you an' Betsy fust hitched together?”
“No, I don't,” said the man addressed, almost with a growl at being roused from what could not have been pleasant reflections.
“I remember folks said you was the stingiest one in our family,” struck in Mrs. Bishop, plaintively. “Law me! I hain't thought of it from that day to this. It seems powerful funny now to think of you havin' sech a reputation, but I railly believe you had it once.”
“An' I deserved it,” Abner folded his paper, and rapped with it on the table. “You know, Betsy, our old daddy was as close as they make 'em; he had a rope tied to every copper he had, an' I growed up thinkin' it was the only safe course in life. I was too stingy to buy ginger-cake an' cider at camp-meetin' when I was dyin' fer it. I've walked round an' round a old nigger woman's stand twenty times with a dry throat an' my fingers on a slick dime, an' finally made tracks fer the nighest spring. I had my eyes opened to stinginess bein' ungodly by noticin' its effect on pa. He was a natural human bein' till a body tetched his pocket, an' then he was a rantin' devil. I got to thinkin' I'd be like 'im by inheritance ef I didn't call a halt, an' I begun tryin' in various ways to reform. I remember I lent money a little freer than I had, which wasn't sayin' much, fer thar was a time when I wouldn't 'a' sold a man a postage-stamp on a credit ef he'd 'a' left it stuck to the back o' my neck fer security.
“But I 'll tell you how I made my fust great big slide towards reformation. It tuck my breath away, an' lots o' my money; but I did it with my eyes open. I was jest a-thinkin' a minute ago that maybe ef I told you-uns about how little it hurt me to give it up you mought sleep better to-night over yore own shortage. Alf, are you listenin'?”
“Yes, I heerd what you said,” mumbled Bishop.
Abner cleared his throat, struck at a moth with his paper, and continued: “Betsy, you remember our cousin, Jimmy Bartow? You never knowed 'im well, beca'se you an' Alf was livin' on Holly Creek about that time, an' he was down in our neighborhood. He never was wuth shucks, but he twisted his mustache an' greased his hair an' got 'im a wife as easy as fallin' off a log. He got to clerkin' fer old Joe Mason in his store at the cross-roads, and the sight o' so much change passin' through his fingers sort o' turned his brain. He tuck to drinking an' tryin' to dress his wife fine, an' one thing or other, that made folks talk. He was our double fust cousin, you know, an' we tuck a big interest in 'im on that account. After a while old Joe begun to miss little dribs o' cash now an' then, an' begun to keep tab on Jimmy, an' 'fore the young scamp knowed it, he was ketched up with as plain as day.
“Old Joe made a calculation that Jimmy had done 'im, fust and last, to the tune of about five hundred dollars, an' told Jimmy to set down by the stove an' wait fer the sheriff.
“Jimmy knowed he could depend on the family pride, an' he sent fer all the kin fer miles around. It raised a awful rumpus, fer not one o' our stock an' generation had ever been jailed, an' the last one of us didn't want it to happen. I reckon we was afeerd ef it once broke out amongst us it mought become a epidemic. They galloped in on the'r hosses an' mules, an' huddled around Mason. They closed his doors, back an' front, an' patted 'im on the back, an' talked about the'r trade an' influence, an' begged 'im not to prefer charges; but old Joe stood as solid as a rock. He said a thief was a thief, ef you spelt it back'ards or for'ards, or ef he was akin to a king or a corn-fiel' nigger. He said it was, generally, the bigger the station the bigger the thief. Old Joe jest set at his stove an' chawed tobacco an' spit. Now an' then he'd stick his hands down in his pockets an' rip out a oath. Then Jimmy's young wife come with her little teensy baby, an' set down by Jimmy, skeerd mighty nigh out of 'er life. Looked like the baby was skeerd too, fer it never cried ur moved. Then the sheriff driv' up in his buggy an' come in clinkin' a pair o' handcuffs. He seed what they was all up to an' stood back to see who would win, Jimmy's kin or old Joe. All at once I tuck notice o' something that made me madder'n a wet hen. They all knowed I had money laid up, an' they begun to ax old Mason ef I'd put up the five hundred dollars would he call it off. I was actu'ly so mad I couldn't speak. Old Joe said he reckoned, seein' that they was all so turribly set back, that he'd do it ef I was willin'. The Old Nick got in me then as big as a side of a house, an' I give the layout about the toughest talk they ever had. It didn't faze 'em much, fer all they wanted was to git Jimmy free, an' so they tuck another tack. Ef they'd git up half amongst 'em all, would I throw in t'other half? That, ef anything, made me madder. I axed 'em what they tuck me fer—did I look like a durn fool? An' did they think beca'se they was sech fools I was one?
“Old Tommy Todd, Jimmy's own uncle, was thar, but he never had a word to say. He jest set an' smoked his pipe an' looked about, but he wouldn't open his mouth when they'd ax him a question. He was knowed to be sech a skinflint that nobody seemed to count on his help at all, an' he looked like he was duly thankful fer his reputation to hide behind in sech a pressure.
“Then they lit into me, an' showed me up in a light I'd never appeared in before. They said I was the only man thar without a family to support, an' the only one thar with ready cash in the bank, an' that ef I'd let my own double fust cousin be jailed, I was a disgrace to 'em all. They'd not nod to me in the big road, an' ud use the'r influence agin my stayin' in the church an' eventually gittin' into the kingdom o' Heaven. I turned from man to devil right thar. I got up on the head of a tater-barrel behind the counter, an' made the blamedest speech that ever rolled from a mouth inspired by iniquity. I picked 'em out one by one an' tore off their shirts, an' chawed the buttons. The only one I let escape was old Tommy; he never give me a chance to hit him. Then I finally come down to the prisoner at the bar an' I larruped him. Ever' time I'd give a yell, Jimmy ud duck his head, an' his wife ud huddle closer over the baby like she was afeerd splinters ud git in its eyes. I made fun of 'em till I jest had to quit. Then they turned the'r backs on me an' begun to figure on doin' without my aid. It was mortgage this, an' borrow this, an' sell this hoss or wagon or mule or cow, an' a turrible wrangle. I seed they was gittin' down to business an' left 'em.
“I noticed old Tommy make his escape, an' go out an' unhitch his hoss, but he didn't mount. Looked like he 'lowed he was at least entitled to carryin' the news home, whether he he'ped or not. I went to the spring at the foot o' the rise an' set down. I didn't feel right. In fact, I felt meaner than I ever had in all my life, an' couldn't 'a' told why. Somehow I felt all at once ef they did git Jimmy out o' hock an' presented 'im to his wife an' baby without me a-chippin' in, I'd never be able to look at 'em without remorse, an' I did think a lots o' Jimmy's wife an' baby. I set thar watchin' the store about as sorry as a proud sperit kin feel after a big rage. Fust I'd hope they'd git up the required amount, an' then I'd almost hope they wouldn't. Once I actually riz to go offer my share, but the feer that it ud be refused stopped me. On the whole, I think I was in the mud about as deep as Jimmy was in the mire, an' I hadn't tuck nobody's money nuther. All at once I begun to try to see some way out o' my predicament. They wouldn't let me chip in, but I wondered ef they'd let me pay it all. I believed they would, an' I was about to hurry in the store when I was balked by the thought that folks would say I was a born idiot to be payin' my lazy, triflin' kinfolks out o' the consequences o' the'r devilment; so I set down agin, an' had another wrastle. I seed old Tommy standin' by his hoss chawin' his ridin'-switch an' watchin' the door. All at once he looked mighty contemptible, an' it struck me that I wasn't actin' one bit better, so I ris an' plunged fer the door. Old Tommy ketched my arm as I was about to pass 'im an' said, 'What you goin' to do, Ab?' An' I said, 'Uncle Tommy, I'm a-goin' to pay that boy out ef they 'll let me.'
“'You don't say,' the old fellow grunted, lookin' mighty funny, an' he slid in the store after me. Somehow I wasn't afeerd o' nothin' with or without shape. I felt like I was walkin' on air in the brightest, saftest sunshine I ever felt. They was all huddled over Mason's desk still a-figurin' an' a-complainin' at the uneven division. Jimmy set thar with his head ducked an' his young wife was tryin' to fix some'n' about the baby. She looked like she'd been cryin.'I got up on my tater-barrel an' knocked on the wall with a axe-handle to attract the'r attention. Then I begun. I don't know what I said, or how it sounded, but I seed Jimmy raise his head an' look, an' his wife push back her poke-bonnet an' stare like I'd been raised from the grave. Along with my request to be allowed to foot the whole bill, I said I wanted to do it beca'se I believed I could show Jimmy an' his wife that I was doin' it out o' genuine regard fer 'em both, an' that I wanted 'em to take a hopeful new start an' not be depressed. Well, sir, it was like an avalanche. I never in all my life seed sech a knocked-out gang. Nobody wanted to talk. The sheriff looked like he was afeerd his handcuffs ud jingle, an' Jimmy bu'st out cryin'. His wife sobbed till you could 'a' heerd her to the spring. She sprung up an' fetched me her baby an' begged me to kiss it. With her big glad eyes, an' the tears in 'em, she looked nigher an angel than any human bein' I ever looked at. Jimmy went out the back way wipin' his eyes, an' I went to Mason's desk to write him a check fer the money. He come to my elbow an' looked troubled.
“'I said it was five hundred dollars,' said he, 'but I was sorter averagin' the loss. I ain't a-goin' to run no risks in a matter like this. I'd feel better to call it four hundred. You see, Jimmy's been a sort o' standby with me, an' has fetched me lots o' trade. Make it four hundred and I 'll keep 'im. I don't believe he 'll ever git wrong agin.'
“And Jimmy never did. He stayed thar for five yeer on a stretch, an' was the best clerk in the county. I was paid a thousandfold. I never met them two in my life that they didn't look jest like they thought I was all right, an' that made me feel like I was to some extent. Old Tommy, though, was the funniest thing about it. He bored me mighty nigh to death. He'd come to my cabin whar I was livin' at the time an' set by my fire an' smoke an' never say hardly a word. It looked like some 'n' was on his mind, an' he couldn't git it off. One night when he'd stayed longer 'n usual, I pinned 'im down an' axed 'im what was the matter. He got up quick an' said nothin' aileded 'im, but he stopped at the fence an' called me out. He was as white as a sheet an' quiverin' all over. Said he: 'I've got to have this over with, Ab. I may as well tell you an' be done with it. It's been botherin' the life out o' me, an' I 'll never git rid of it till it's done. I want to pay you half o' that money you spent on Jimmy. I had the cash that day, an' it 'ain't done me one bit o' good sence then. I 'll never sleep well till I go you halvers.'
“'I cayn't sell that to you, Uncle Tommy,' I said, laughin'. 'No, siree, you couldn't chip into that investment ef you doubled yore offer. I've found out what it is wuth. But,' said I, 'ef you've got two hundred that's burnin' a hole in yore pocket, ur conscience, an' want to yank it out, go give it to Jimmy's wife to he'p her educate that baby.'
“It struck 'im betwixt the eyes, but he didn't say yes or no. He slid away in the moonlight, all bent over an' quiet. I never seed 'im agin fer a month, an' then I called 'im out of a crowd o' fellers at the court-house an' axed 'im what he'd done. He looked bothered a little, but he gave me a straight look like he wasn't ready to sneak out o' anything.
“'I thought it over,' said he, 'but I railly don't see no reason why I ort to help Jimmy's child any more 'n a whole passle o' others that have as much claim on me by blood; but somehow I do feel like goin' cahoot with you in what's already been done, an' I'm still ready to jine you, ef you are willin'.'
“I didn't take his money, but it set me to thinkin'. When old Tommy died, ten years after that, they found he had six wool socks filled with gold an' silver coin under his house, an' nobody ever heerd o' his doin' any charity work. I wish now that I'd 'a' lifted that cash an' 'a' put it whar it would do good. If I had he'd 'a' had a taste o' some 'n' that never glorified his pallet.”
When Abner concluded, Mrs. Bishop went to the fire and pushed the chunks together into a heap in the fireplace. Bishop moved in his chair, but he said nothing.
“I remember heerin' about that, brother Ab,” Mrs. Bishop said, a reminiscent intonation in her voice. “Some folks wondered powerful over it. I don't believe money does a body much good jest to hold an' keep. As the Lord is my judge, I jest wanted that bank deposit fer Alan and Adele. I wanted it, an' I wanted it bad, but I cayn't believe it was a sin.”
Something like a groan escaped Bishop's lips as he lowered the front posts of his chair to the floor.
“What's the use o' talkin' about it?” he said, impatiently. “What's the use o' anything?”
He rose and moved towards the door leading to his room.
“Alfred,” Mrs. Bishop called to him, “are you goin' to bed without holdin' prayer?”
“I'm goin' to omit it to-night,” he said. “I don't feel well, one bit. Besides, I reckon each pusson kin pray in private according to the way they feel.”
Abner stood up, and removing the lamp-chimney he lighted a candle by the flame.
“I tried to put a moral lesson in what I said just now,” he smiled, mechanically, “but I missed fire. Alf's sufferin' is jest unselfishness puore an' undefiled; he wants to set his children up in the world. This green globe is a sight better 'n some folks thinks it is. You kin find a little speck o' goody in mighty nigh ever' chestnut.”
“That's so, brother Ab,” said his sister; “but we are ruined now—ruined, ruined!”
“Ef you will look at it that way,” admitted Abner, reaching for his candle; “but thar's a place ahead whar thar never was a bank, or a dollar, or a railroad, an' it ain't fur ahead, nuther. Some folks say it begins heer in this life.”
9000
S Abner Daniel leaned over the rail-fence in front of Pole Baker's log-cabin one balmy day, two weeks later, he saw evidences of the ex-moonshiner's thriftlessness combined with an inordinate love for his children. A little express-wagon, painted red, such as city children receive from their well-to-do parents on Christmas, was going to ruin under a cherry-tree which had been bent to the ground by a rope-swing fastened to one of its flexible boughs. The body of a mechanical speaking-doll lay near by, and the remains of a toy air-rifle. After a protracted spree Pole usually came home laden down with such peace-offerings to his family and conscience. His wife might go without a needed gown, and he a coat, but his children never without toys. Seeing Abner at the fence, Mrs. Baker came to the low door and stood bending her head to look out.
“I heerd at home,” said Abner, “that Pole was over thar axin' fer me. I've been away to my peach-orchard on the hill.”
“Yes, he's been over thar twice,” said the woman. “He's back of the house some'r's settin' a trap fer the children to ketch some birds in. I 'll blow the horn. When I blow twice he knows he's wanted right off.”
She took down a cow's-horn from a nail on the wall, and going to the door on the opposite side of the house she gave two long, ringing blasts, which set half a dozen dogs near by and some far off to barking mellowly. In a few minutes Pole appeared around the corner of the cabin.
“Hello, Uncle Ab,” he said. “Won't you come in?”
“No, hain't time,” smiled the old man. “I jest come over to see how much money you wanted to borrow.”
“I don't want any o' yo'rn,” said Pole, leaning over the fence, his unbuttoned shirt-sleeves allowing his brawny, bare arms to rest on the top rail. “I wanted to talk to you about Alan an' that bank bu'st-up.”
“You've been to town, I heer,” said Abner, deeply interested.
“Yes, an' I've been with Alan an' Miller fer the last week tryin' to do some 'n', but we couldn't. They've been sendin' telegrams by the basketful, an' Jeff Dukes has trotted his legs off back an' forth, but nothin' hain't been done.”
“You say the' hain't?” Abner's voice quivered and fell.
“No; they both kept up the'r sperits purty well fer about ten days beca'se that dang Atlanta chief of police kept wirin' he was on a scent o' Winship; but day before yesterday they give in. We was a-settin' in Miller's office when the last message come from Atlanta. They said they'd been after the wrong man, an' that they'd give up. You ort to 'a' seed Alan's face. Miller tried to cheer 'im up, but it wasn't no go. Then who do you think come? Alan's sweetheart. She axed to see 'im, an' they talked awhile in the front room; then Miller come back an' said she'd axed to be introduced to me. Jest think of it! I went in and seed she'd been a-cryin'. She got up, by jinks! an' ketched my hand an' said she wanted to thank me beca'se I'd been sech a friend to Alan. Uncle Ab, I felt as mean as a egg-suckin' dog, beca'se thar was Alan flat o' his back, as the feller said, an' I hadn't turned a hand to he'p 'im. And thar she was, the gal he loves an' wants, an' his poverty standin' betwixt 'em. I couldn't say nothin', an' I reckon I looked more kinds of a damn fool than she ever seed on two legs.”
“Well, what did you do?” asked Abner, too much moved by Pole's graphic picture to speak with his usual lightness.
“What did I do? I made my bow an' slid. I made a bee-line fer Murray's bar an' put two down as fast as they could shovel 'em out. Then I tuck another, an' quit countin'. I begun to think I owned the shebang, an' broke several billiard-cues an' throwed the chalk around. Then Dukes come an' said he'd give me a chance to escape trial fer misconduct, ef I'd straddle my hoss an' make fer home. I agreed, but thar was one thing I had to do fust. I had promised Alan not to drink any more, an' so I didn't want to sneak away to hide it. I went to Miller's house, whar he's stayin', an' called 'im out. I told 'im I'd jest come fer no other reason 'an to let 'im see me at my wust. I felt like it was the only manly way, after I'd broke faith with a friend as true as he is.”
“Too bad!” sighed Abner. “I 'll bet it hurt Alan to see you in that fix.”
“Well, he didn't complain,” said Pole. “But he put his arm around me an' come as nigh cryin' as I ever seed a strong man. 'It's my fault, Pole,' ses he. 'I can see that.' Then him an' Miller both tried to git me to go up-stairs in that fine house an' go to bed an' sleep it off, but I wouldn't. I come on home an' got mad at Sally fer talkin' to me, an' come as nigh as peas hittin' 'er in the jaw. But that's over, Uncle Ab. What I'm in fer now is work. I ain't no fool. I'm on a still hunt, an' I jest want yore private opinion. I don't want you to commit yorese'f, unless you want to; but I'd go more on yore jedgment than any man' s in this county. I want to know ef you think old Craig is a honest man at heart. Now don't say you don't know, an' keep yore mouth shet; fer what I want to know, an'allI want to know, is how you feel about that one thing.”
Abner hung his head down. His long thumb trembled as its nail went under a splinter on the rail and pried it off.
“I see what you are a-drivin' at,” he said. “You jest want to feel shore o' yore ground.” Abner began to chew the splinter and spit out the broken bits. He was silent, under Pole's anxious gaze, for a minute, and then he laughed dryly. “I reckon me 'n' you has about the same suspicions,” he said. “That p'int's been worryin' me fer several days, an' I didn't let it end, thar nuther.”
“Ah! you didn't?” exclaimed Baker. “You say you didn't, Uncle Ab?”
“No; I got so I couldn't lie down at night without the idea poppin' into my head that maybe Craig had made a tool of Winship fer some minor crime an' had hustled 'im out o' the country so he could gobble up what was in the bank an' pose as a injured man in the community.”
“Same heer, pine blank!” said Pole, eagerly. “What did you do, Uncle Ab?”
“I went to Darley an' attended his church last Sunday,” replied the old man, a tense expression in his eyes. “I got a seat in the amen-corner, whar I could see him, an' all through preachin' I watched 'im like a hawk. He didn't look to me like a man who had bu'sted on wind alone. He had a fat, oily, pink look, an' when they axed 'im to lead in prayer it looked to me like he was talkin' more to the people 'an he was to God. I didn't like his whine, an' what he said didn't seem to come from the cellar. But I seed that he was makin' converts to his side as fast as a dog kin trot. The Presbyterians an' Baptists has been accusin' the Methodists o' packin' more bad eggs 'an they have, an' it looks like Craig's crowd's a-goin' to swear he's fresh whether he is or not. After meetin' was over I walked ahead of him an' his fine lady, who has made the mistake o' tryin' to kiver the whole business up with silk an' feathers, an' waited fer 'em nigh the'r gate. I told 'im I wanted a word with 'im, an' they axed me in the parlor. I smelt dinner, but they didn't mention it. I wasn't goin' to eat thar nohow. Well, I set in an' jest told Craig what had been troublin' me. I said the loss o' my folk's money was as bad as death, an' that thar'd been so much talk agin him, an' suspicion, that I had jest come to headquarters. Ef he had any money laid away, I was thar to tell 'im it never would do 'im any good, an' ef he didn't, I wanted to beg his pardon fer my evil thoughts, an' try to git the matter off'n my mind.”
“Good God! did you railly tell 'im that, Uncle Ab?”
“Yes, an' I had a deep-laid reason. I wanted to make 'im mad an' study 'im. He did git mad. He was as red as a dewberry, an' quivered from head to foot. Thar's two kinds o' mad—the justified an' the unjustified. Make a good man rail mad by accusin' 'im, an' he 'll justify hisse'f or bu'st; but ef you make a bad un mad by accusin' 'im, he 'll delight in showin' you he's done wrong—ef it hurts youan' he's safe. Thar's right whar I landed Craig. He had the look, as plain as day, o' sayin', 'Yes, dang you, I did it, an' you cayn't he'p yorese'f!' His wife had gone in the back part o' the house, an' after a while I heerd her new shoes a-creakin' at the door betwixt the two rooms. Now a pair o' shoes don't walk up to a door squeakin' like mice an' then stop all of a sudden without reason. I knowed she was a-listenin', an' I determined she should not heer me say she was purty. I told 'im louder 'an ever that folks was a-talkin', an' a-talkin', an' that fetched her. She flung open the door an' faced me as mad as a turtle on its back. She showed her hand, too, an' I knowed she was in cahoot with 'im. She cussed me black an' blue fer a uncouth, meddlin' devil, an' what not.”
“By gum!” said Pole, his big eyes expanding. “But you didn't gain much by that, did you?”
“Jest satisfied myself that Alan's money—or some of it—wasn't out o' creation, that's all.”
“I have my reasons fer believin' like you do,” said Pole.
“You say you have.”
Pole glanced furtively over his shoulder at his cabin to see that no one was within hearing, then said:
“You know Winship is old Fred Parson's nephew. Well, old Fred's always been a stanch friend to me. We moonshined it together two yeer, though he never knowed my chief hidin'-place. In fact, nobody knows about that spot, Uncle Ab, even now. Well, I had a talk with him an' axed his opinion about his nephew. He talks as straight as a shingle, an' he ain't no idiot. He says it's all bosh about Winship takin' away all that boodle.”
“He does, does he?” Abner nodded, as if to himself.
“Yes, and he don't claim Winship ain't guilty, nuther; he jest holds that he was too small a dabbler in devilment. He thinks, as I do, that Craig run 'im off with threats of arrest an' picked that chance to bu'st. He thinks Winship's in a safe place an' never will be fetched back.”
Abner drew himself up straight.
“Have you talked to Alan an' Miller on that line?”
“Tried to,” grunted Pole, in high disgust, “but Miller says it's no good to think of accusin' Craig. He says we can' t prove a thing on 'im, unless we ketch Winship. He says that sort of a steal is the easiest thing on earth, an' that it's done every day. But that's beca'se he was fetched up in the law,” Pole finished. “We-uns out heer in the mountains kin fish up other ways o' fetchin' a scamp to time without standin' 'im up before a thick-headed jury, or lettin' 'im out on bond till he dies o' old age. You've got sense enough to know that, Uncle Ab.”
The slanting rays of the setting sun struck the old man in the face. There was a tinkle of cow-bells in the pasture below the cabin. The outlaw in Pole Baker was a thing Abner Daniel deplored; and yet, to-day it was a straw bobbing about on the troubled waters of the old man' s soul towards which, if he did not extend his hand, he looked interestedly. A grim expression stole into his face, drawing the merry lines down towards his chin.
“I wouldn't do nothin' foolhardy,” he said.
Pole Baker grunted in sheer derision. “I've done fool things whar thar wasn't a thing to be made by 'em. By gum! I'd do ten dozen fer jest a bare chance o' shakin' that wad o' cash in Alan Bishop's face, an' so would you, dern yore hide—so would you, Uncle Ab Daniel!”
Abner blinked at the red sun.
“The boy's been bad treated,” he said, evasively; “bad, bad, bad! It's squeezed life an' hope out o' him.”
“Well, you are a church-member, an' sofurin good-standin',” said Pole, “an' I ain't agoin' to pull you into no devilment; but ef I see any way—I sayefI see any way, I 'll come an' tell you the news.”
“I wouldn't do nothin' foolhardy,” said Abner, and turned to go. He paused a few paces away and said, “I wouldn't do nothin' foolhardy, Pole.” He motioned towards the cabin. “You've got them in thar to look after.”
Pole let him walk on a few paces, then he climbed over the fence and caught him up. He drew the piece of quartz containing the tiny nugget of gold from his pocket, which he had shown Abner and Dole on a former occasion. “You see that, Uncle Ab,” he said. “That dirty rock is like friendship in general, but that little yaller lump is like my friendship fer Alan Bishop. It's the puore thing, solid an' heavy, an' won't lose color. You don't know when that boy done his first favor to me. It was away back when we was boys together. A feller at Treadwell's mill one day, behind my back, called me a bad name—a name no man will take or can. He used my mother's name, God bless her! as puore an' holy a woman as ever lived, to git back at me. He hadn't no sooner spoke it than Alan was at his throat like a wild-cat. The skunk was bigger 'n him, but Alan beat 'im till he was black all over. I never heerd about it till about two weeks after it happened an' the feller had moved out West. Alan wouldn't let nobody tell me. I axed 'im why he hadn't let me know. 'Beca'se,' ses he, 'you'd 'a' killed 'im an' 'a' got into trouble, an' he wasn't wuth it. 'That's what he said, Uncle Ab.” Pole's big-jawed face was full of struggling emotion, his voice was husky, his eyes were filling. “That's why it's a-killin' me to see 'im robbed of all he's got—his pride, his ambition, an' the good woman that loves 'im. Huh! ef I jestknowedthat pie-faced hypocrite had his money he wouldn't have it long.”
“I wouldn't do nothin' foolhardy, Pole.” Abner looked into the fellow's face, drew a long, trembling breath, and finished, “I wouldn't—but I 'll be dumed ef I know what I'd do!”
9218
HE following morning Pole rose before daylight and rode to Darley. As he reached the place, the first rays of the sun were touching the slate-covered spire of the largest church in town.
He went to a public wagon-yard and hitched his horse to one of the long racks. A mountain family he knew slightly had camped in the yard, sleeping in their canvas-covered wagon, and were making coffee over a little fire. Pole wanted a cup of the beverage, but he passed on into a grocery-store across the street and bought a dime's worth of cheese and hard-tack crackers. This was his breakfast. He washed it down with a dipper of water from the street well, and sat around the store chatting with the clerk, who was sprinkling the floor, and sweeping and dusting the long room. The clerk was a red-headed young man with a short, bristling mustache, and a suit of clothes that was too large for him.
“Don't Mr. Craig stay around Fincher's warehouse a good deal?” Pole asked, as the clerk rested for a moment on his broom near him.
“Mighty nigh all day long,” was the reply; “him an' Fincher's some kin, I think.”
“On his wife's side,” said Pole. “I want to see Mr. Craig. I wonder ef he 'll be down thar this mornin'.”
“Purty apt,” said the clerk. “Fincher's his best friend sence his bu'st-up, an' they are mighty thick. I reckon he gits the cold-shoulder at a lots o' places.”
“You don't say!”
“An' of course he wants somewhar to go besides home. In passing I've seed 'im a-figurin' several times at Fincher's desk. They say he's got some notion o' workin' fer Fincher as his bookkeeper.”
“Well, he 'll have to make a livin' some way,” said Pole.
The clerk laughed significantly.
“Ef it ain't already made,” said he, with a smile. Pole stood up. “I don't think that's right,” he said, coldly. “Me nur you, nur nobody, hain't got no right to hint at what we don't know nothin' about. Mr. Craig may 'a' lost ever' cent he had.”
“In a pig's valise!” sneered the red-headed man. “I'd bet my hat he's got money—an' plenty of it, huh!”
“Well, I don't know nothin' about it,” said Pole, still coldly. “An' what's more, Dunn, I ain't a-goin' about smirchin' any helpless man's character, nuther. Ef I knowed he had made by the bu'st I'd talk different, but I don't know it!”
“Oh, I see which side you are on, Baker,” laughed the clerk. “Folks are about equally divided. Half is fer 'im an' half agin. But mark my words, Craig will slide out o' this town some day, an' be heerd of after a while a-gittin' started agin some'r's else. That racket has been worked to death all over the country.”
Pole carried the discussion no further. Half an hour passed. Customers were coming in from the wagon-yard and examining the wares on the counters and making slow purchases. The proprietor came in and let the clerk go to breakfast. Pole stood in the doorway, looking up the street in the direction of Craig's residence. Presently he saw the ex-banker coming from the post-office, reading his mail. Pole stepped back into the store and let him go by; then he went to the door again and saw Craig go into Fincher's warehouse at the end of the next block of straggling, wooden buildings. Pole sauntered down the sidewalk in that direction, passing the front door of the warehouse without looking in. The door at the side of the house had a long platform before it, and on it Fincher, the proprietor, was weighing bales of hay which were being unloaded from several wagons by the countrymen who were disposing of it.
“Hello, Mr. Fincher,” Pole greeted him, familiarly. “Want any help unloadin'?”
“Hello, Baker,” said Fincher, looking up from the blank-book in which he was recording the weights. “No, I reckon they can handle it all right.” Fincher was a short, fat man, very bald, and with a round, laughing face. He had known Pole a long time and considered him a most amusing character. “How do you come on, Pole?”
“Oh, about as common. I jest thought them fellers looked sorter light-weight.”
The men on the wagon laughed as they thumped a bale of hay on to the platform. “You'd better dry up,” one of them said. “We 'll git the mayor to put you to work agin.”
“Well, he 'll have to be quicker about it than he was the last time,” said Pole, dryly.
Some one laughed lustily from behind a tall stack of wheat in bags in the warehouse. It was Lawyer Trabue. He came round and picked up Fincher's daily paper, as he did every morning, and sat down and began to read it.
“Now you are talkin',” he said. “Thar was more rest in that job, Pole, than any you ever undertook. They tell me you didn't crack a rock.”
Fincher laughed as he closed his book and struck Baker with it playfully. “Pole was too tired to do that job,” he said. “He was born that way.”
“Say, Mr. Trabue,” retaliated Pole, “did you ever heer how I got the best o' Mr. Fincher in a chicken trade?”
“I don't think I ever did, Pole,” laughed the lawyer, expectantly. “How was it?”
“Oh, come off, don't go over that again,” said Fincher, flushing.
“It was this away,” said Pole, with a broad, wholesome grin. “My cousin, Bart Wilks, was runnin' the restaurant under the car-shed about two yeer ago. He was a new hand at the business, an' one day he had a awful rush. He got a telegram that a trainload o' passengers had missed connection at Chattanooga an' would have to eat with him. He was powerful rattled, runnin' round like a dog after its tail. He knowed he'd have to have a lot o' fryin' chickens, an' he couldn't leave the restaurant, so he axed me ef I'd take the money an' go out in town an' buy 'em fer 'im. I consented, an' struck Mr. Fincher, who was sellin' sech truck then. He 'lowed, you know, that I jest wanted one, or two at the outside, fer my own use, so when I seed a fine coop out in front an' axed the price of 'em he kinder drawed on his beerd till his mouth fell open, an' studied how he could make the most out o' me. After a while he said: 'Well, Pole, I 'll make 'em ten cents apiece ef I pick 'em, an' fifteen ef you pick 'em.' I sorter skeerd the chickens around an' seed thar was two or three tiny ones hidin' under the big ones, an' I seed what he was up to, but I was ready fer 'im. 'All right,' ses I, 'you pick 'em.' Thar was two or three loafers standin' round an' they all laughed at me when Mr. Fincher got down over the coop an' finally ketched one about the size of a robin an' hauled it out. 'Keep on a-pickin',' ses I, an' he made a grab fer one a little bigger an' handed it up to me. Then he stuck his hands down in his pockets, doin' his best to keep from laughin'. The gang yelled then, but I wasn't done. 'Keep on a-pickin',' ses I. An' he got down agin. An', sir, I got that coop at about four cents apiece less 'n he'd paid fer 'em. He tried to back, but the gang wouldn't let 'im. It was the cheapest lot o' chickens I ever seed. I turned the little ones out to fatten, an' made Wilks pay me the market-price all round fer the bunch.”
“I 'll be bound you made some 'n' out of it,” said Trabue. “Fincher, did you ever heer how that scamp tuck in every merchant on this street about two yeer ago?”
“Never heerd anything except his owin' 'em all,” said Fincher, with a laugh.
“I could put 'im in the penitentiary fer it,” affirmed the lawyer. “You know about that time thar was a powerful rivalry goin' on among the storekeepers. They was movin' heaven an' earth to sell the'r big stocks. Well, one of the spryest in the lot, Joe Gaylord, noticed that Pole was powerful popular with mountain-folks, an' he made 'im a proposition, bindin' 'im down to secrecy. He proposed to give Pole ten per cent, commission on all the goods he'd he'p sell by bringin' customers in the store. Pole hesitated, beca'se, he said, they might find it out, an' Joe finally agreed that all Pole would have to do was to fetch 'em in, give the wink, an' him an' his clerks would do the rest. It worked mighty slick fer a while, but Pole noticed that very often the folks he'd fetch in wouldn't be pleased with the goods an' prices an' ud go trade some'r's else. Then what do you think the scamp did? He went to every store in town an' made a secret contract to git ten per cent, on all sales, an' he had the softest snap you ever heerd of. He'd simply hang onto a gang from the country, whether he knowed 'em or not, an' foller 'em around till they bought; then he'd walk up an' rake in his part.”
“I got left once,” said Pole, laughing with the others. “One gang that I stuck to all day went over to Melton an' bought.”
“Well, the merchants caught on after a while an' stopped him,” said Trabue; “but he made good money while he was at it. They'd 'a' sent 'im up fer it, ef it hadn't been sech a good joke on 'em.”
“I don't know about that,” replied Pole, thoughtfully. “I was doin' all I agreed, an' ef they could afford to pay ten per cent, to anybody, they mought as well 'a' paid it to me. I drawed trade to the whole town. The cigars an' whiskey I give away amounted to a lots. I've set up many a night tellin' them moss-backs tales to make 'em laugh.”
“Well, ef you ever git into any trouble let me know,” said Trabue, as he rose to go. “I 'll defend you at half price; you'd be a sight o' help to a lawyer. I 'll be hanged if I ever seed a better case 'an you made out in the mayor's court, an' you hadn't a thing to back it up with, nuther.”
The hay was unloaded and the wagons driven away. Fincher stood eying Pole with admiration. “It's a fact,” he said. “You could 'a' made some 'n' out o' yorese'f, if you'd 'a' been educated, an' had a showin'.” Pole jerked his thumb over his shoulder at Craig, who was standing in the front door, looking out into the street. “Everybody don't git a fair showin' in this world, Mr. Fincher,” he said. “That man Craig hain't been treated right.”
The jovial expression died out of the merchant's face, and he leaned against the door-jamb.
“You are right thar,” he said—“dead right. He's been mighty unlucky and bad treated.”
Pole grasped the brim of his massive hat, and drew it from his shaggy head. “It makes me so all-fired mad sometimes, Mr. Fincher, to heer folks a-runnin' that man down, that I want to fight. I ain't no religious man myse'f, but I respect one, an' I've always put him down in my book as a good man.”
“So 've I,” said the merchant, and he looked towards the subject of their conversation and called out: “Craig, oh, Craig, come back heer a minute.”
Pole put on his hat and stared at the ground. He made a gesture as if of protest, but refrained from speaking.
“What's wanted?” Craig came down to them. He was smoking a cigar and wore a comfortable look, as if he had been fighting a hard but successful fight and now heard only random shots from a fleeing enemy.
“You ain't a candidate fer office,” laughed Fincher, “but nearly all men like to know they've got friends. This chap heer's been standin' up fer you. He says it makes him mad to hear folks talk agin you.”
“Oh, it's Baker!” exclaimed the ex-banker, shaking hands with Pole and beaming on him. “Well, I don't know a man I'd rather have for a friend,” he said, smoothly.
Pole tossed his head, and looked straight into the speaker's eye. “I'm fer human justice, Mr. Craig,” he said. “An' I don't think folks has treated you right. What man is thar that don't now an' then make mistakes, sir? You've always had means, an' I never was anything but a pore mountain-boy, but I've always looked on you as a good man, a law-abidin' man, an' I don't like to heer folks try to blame you fer what another man done. When you had plenty, I never come nigh you, beca'se I knowed you belonged to one life an' me another, but now you are flat o' yore back, sir, I'm yore friend.”
Craig's face beamed; he pulled his beard; his eyes danced.
“I'm glad there are men in the world like you, Baker,” he said. “I say I'm glad, and I mean it.”
Fincher had begun to look over the figures in his book, and walked to the front.
“Oh, my friendship ain't wuth nothin',” said Pole. “I know that. I never was in the shape to he'p nobody, but I know when a man' s treated right or wrong.”
“Well, if you ever need assistance, and I can help you, don't fail to call on me,” Craig spoke with a tone of sincerity.
Pole took a deep breath and lowered his voice, glancing cautiously into the house, as if fearful of being overheard.
“Well, Idoneed advice, Mr. Craig,” he said. “Not money, nor nothin' expensive, but I've laid awake night after night wishing 'at I could run on some man of experience that I could ax fer advice, an' that I could trust. Mr. Craig, I 'll be blamed ef I don't feel like tellin' you some 'n' that never has passed my lips.”
Craig stared in interested astonishment. “Well, you can trust me, Baker,” he said; “and if I can advise you, why, I 'll do it with pleasure.”
There was a cotton compress near by, with its vast sheds and platforms, and Pole looked at it steadily. He thrust his hand into his pants pocket and kept it there for a full minute. Then he shook his head, drew out his hand, and said: “I reckon I won't bother you to-day, Mr. Craig. Some day I 'll come in town an' tell you, but—” Pole looked at the sun. “I reckon I'd better be goin'.”
“Hold on,” Craig caught Pole's arm. The exbanker was a natural man. Despite his recent troubles, he had his share of curiosity, and Pole's manner and words had roused it to unwonted activity. “Hold on,” he said. “What's your hurry? I've got time to spare if you have.”
Pole hung his head for a moment in silence, then he looked the old man in the face. “Mr. Craig,” he began, in even a lower voice, “do you reckon thar's any gold in them mountains?” Pole nodded to the blue wave in the east.
Craig was standing near a bale of cotton and he sat down on it, first parting the tails of his long, black coat.
“I don't know; there might be,” he said, deeply interested, and yet trying to appear indifferent. “There is plenty of it in the same range further down about Dalonega.”
Pole had his hand in the right pocket of his rough jean trousers.
“Is thar anybody in this town that could tell a piece o' gold ef they seed it?” he asked.
“Oh, a good many, I reckon,” said Craig, a steely beam of excitement in his unsteady eye. “I can, myself. I spent two years in the gold-mines of California when I was a young man.”
“You don't say! I never knowed that.” Pole had really heard of that fact, but his face was straight. He had managed to throw into it a most wonderful blending of fear and over-cautiousness.
“Oh yes; I've had a good deal of experience in such things.”
“You don't say!” Pole was looking towards the compress again.
Craig laughed out suddenly, and put his hand on Pole's shoulder with a friendly, downward stroke.
“You can trust me, Baker,” he said, persuasively, “and it may be that I could be of assistance to you.”
There was something like an actual tremor of agitation in Pole's rough hand as he drew his little nugget from its resting-place at the bottom of his pocket. With a deep, indrawn breath, he handed it to Craig. “Is that thar little lump gold or not?” he asked.
Craig started visibly as his eyes fell on the piece of gold. But he took it indifferently, and examined it closely.
“Where did you run across that?” he asked.
“I want to know ef it's the puore thing,” answered Pole.
Craig made another examination, obviously to decide on the method he would apply to a situation that claimed all his interest.
“I think it is,” he said; “in fact, I know it is.”
Pole took it eagerly, thrust it back into his pocket, and said:
“Mr. Craig, I know whar thar's a vein o' that stuff twenty yards thick, runnin' clean through a mountain.”
“You do!” Craig actually paled under his suppressed excitement.
“Yes, sir; an' I kin buy it, lock, stock, and barrel, fer five hundred dollars—the feller that owns it ud jump at it like a duck on a June-bug. That's my secret, Mr. Craig. I hain't one dollar to my name, but from this day on I'm goin' to work hard an' save my money till I own that property. I'm a-goin' down to Atlanta next week, whar people don't know me, an' have a lump of it bigger 'n this examined, an' ef it's gold I 'll own the land sooner or later.”
Craig glanced to the rear.
“Come back here,” he said. Opening a door at the end of the warehouse, he led Pole into a more retired spot, where they would be free from possible interruption. Then, in a most persuasive voice, he continued: “Baker, you need a man of experience with you in this. Besides, if there is as much of—of that stuff as you say there is, you wouldn't be able to use all you could make out of it. Now, it might take you a long time to get up the money to buy the land, and there is no telling what might happen in the mean time. I'm in a close place, but I could raise five hundred dollars, or even a thousand. My friends still stick to me, you know. The truth is, Baker, I'd like the best in the world to be able to make money to pay back what some of my friends have lost through me.”
Pole hung his head. He seemed to be speaking half to himself and on the verge of a smile when he replied: “I'd like to see you pay back some of 'em too, Mr. Craig.”
Craig laid his hand gently on Pole's shoulder.
“How about lettin' me see the place, Baker?” he said.
Pole hesitated, and then he met the ex-banker's look with the expression of a man who has resigned himself to a generous impulse.
“Well, some day when you are a-passin' my way, stop in, an' I 'll—”
“How far is it?” broke in Craig, pulling his beard with unsteady fingers.
“A good fifteen miles from heer,” said Pole.
Craig smiled. “Nothin' but an easy ride,” he declared. “I've got a horse doin' nothing in the stable. What's to hinder us from going to-day—this morning—as soon as I can go by for my horse?”
“I don't keer,” said Pole, resignedly. “But could you manage to go without anybody knowin' whar you was bound fer?”
“Easy enough,” Craig laughed. He was really pleased with Pole's extreme cautiousness.
“Then you mought meet me out thar some'r's.”
“A good idea—a good idea, Baker.”
“Do you know whar the Ducktown road crosses Holly Creek, at the foot o' Old Pine Mountain?”
“As well as I know where my house is.”
Pole looked at the sun, shading his eyes with his hand.
“Could you be thar by eleven o'clock?”
“Easy enough, Baker.”
“Well, I 'll meet you—I'm a-goin' to trust you, Mr. Craig, an' when you see the vein, ef you think thar's enough money in it fer two—but we can see about that later.”
“All right, Baker. I 'll be there. But say,” as Pole was moving away, “you are a drinking man, and get a little off sometimes. You haven't said anything about this where anybody—”
Pole laughed reassuringly. “I never have been drunk enough to do that, Mr. Craig, an', what's more, I never will be.”