Part 17

“Is it our money--is it our'n?” she finally found voice to say. “Oh, is it, Pole?”

“Yes, 'm,” replied Pole. “It's yo'rn.” He produced a crumpled piece of paper and handed it to Miller. “Heer's Craig's order on his wife fer it, an' in it he acknowledges it's the cash deposited by Mr. Bishop. He won't give me no trouble. I've got 'im fixed. He 'll leave Darley in the mornin'. He's afeerd this 'll git out an' he 'll be lynched.”

Alan was profoundly moved. He transferred his gaze from the money to Pole's face, and leaned towards him.

“You did it out of friendship for me,” he said, his voice shaking.

“That's what I did it fer, Alan, an' I wish I could do it over agin. When I laid hold o' that wad an' knowed it was the thing you wanted more'n anything else, I felt like flyin'.”

“Tell us all about it, Baker,” said Miller, wrapping up the stack of bills.

“All right,” said Pole, but Mrs. Bishop interrupted him.

“Wait fer Alfred,” she said, her voice rising and cracking in delight. “Wait; I 'll run find 'im.”

She went out through the dining-room towards the stables, calling her husband at every step. “Alfred, oh, Alfred!”

“Heer!” she heard him call out from one of the stables.

She leaned over the fence opposite the closed door, behind which she had heard his voice.

“Oh, Alfred!” she called, “come out, quick! I've got news fer you--big, big news!”

She heard him grumbling as he emptied some ears of corn into the trough of the stall containing Alan' s favorite horse, and then with a growl he emerged into the starlight.

“That fool nigger only give Alan's hoss six ears o' corn,” he fumed. “I know, beca'se I counted the cobs; the hoss had licked the trough clean, an' gnawed the ends o' the cobs. The idea o' starvin' my stock right before my--”

“Oh, Alfred, what _do_ you think has happened?” his wife broke in. “We've got the bank money back! Pole Baker managed somehow to get it. He's goin' to tell about it now. Come on in!”

Bishop closed the door behind him; he fumbled with the chain and padlock for an instant, then he moved towards her, his lip hanging, his eyes protruding.

“I 'll believe my part o' that when--”

“But,” she cried, opening the gate for him to pass through, “the money's thar in the house on the table; it's been counted. I say it's thar! Don't you believe it?”

The old man moved through the gate mechanically. He paused to fasten it with the iron ring over the two posts. But after that he seemed to lose the power of locomotion. He stood facing her, his features working.

“I 'll believe my part o' that cat-an'-bull story when I see--”

“Well, come in the house, then,” she cried. “You kin lay yore hands on it an' count it. It's a awful big pile, an' nothin' less than fifty-dollar bills.”

Grasping his arm, she half dragged, half led him into the house. Entering the sitting-room, he strode to the table and, without a word, picked up the package and opened it. He made an effort to count the money, but his fingers seemed to have lost their cunning, and he gave it up.

“It's all there,” Miller assured him, “and it's your money. You needn't bother about that.”

Bishop sat down in his place in the chimney corner, the packet on his knees, while Pole Baker, modestly, and not without touches of humor, recounted his experiences.

“The toughest job I had was managin' the woman,” Pole laughed. “You kin always count on a woman to be contrary. I believe ef you was tryin' to git some women out of a burnin' house they'd want to have the'r way about it. She read the order an' got white about the gills an' screamed, low, so nobody wouldn't heer 'er, an' then wanted to ax questions. That's the female of it. She knowed in reason that Craig was dead fixed an' couldn't git out until she complied with the instructions, but she wanted to know all about it. I reckon she thought he wouldn't give full particulars--an' he won't, nuther. She wouldn't budge to git the money, an' time was a-passin'. I finally had a thought that fetched 'er. I told 'er Craig was confined in a place along with a barrel o' gunpowder; that a slow fuse was burnin' towards 'im, an' that he'd go sky-high at about sundown ef I didn't git thar an' kick out the fire. Then I told 'er she'd be arrested fer holdin' the money, an' that got 'er in a trot. She fetched it out purty quick, a-cryin' an' abusin' me by turns. As soon as the money left 'er hands though, she begun to beg me to ride fast. I wanted to come heer fust; but I felt sorter sorry fer Craig, an' went an' let 'im out. He was the gladdest man to see me you ever looked at. He thought I was goin' to leave 'im thar. He looked like he wanted to hug me. He says Winship wasn't much to blame. They both got in deep water speculatin', an' Craig was tempted to cabbage on the twenty-five thousand dollars.”

When Pole had concluded, the group sat in silence for a long time. It looked as if Bishop wanted to openly thank Pole for what he had done, but he had never done such a thing in the presence of others, and he could not pull himself to it. He sat crouched up in his tilted chair as if burning up with the joy of his release.

The silence was broken by Abner Daniel, as he filled his pipe anew and stood over the fireplace.

“They say money's a cuss an' the root of all evil,” he said, dryly. “But in this case it's give Pole Baker thar a chance to show what's in 'im. I'd 'a' give the last cent I have to 'a' done what he did to-day. I grant you he used deception, but it was the fust-water sort that that Bible king resorted to when he made out he was goin' to divide that baby by cuttin' it in halves. He fetched out the good an' squelched the bad.” Abner glanced at Pole, and gave one of his impulsive inward laughs. “My boy, when I reach t'other shore I expect to see whole strings o' sech law-breakers as you a-playin' leap-frog on the golden sands. You don't sing an' pray a whole lot, nur keep yore religion in sight, but when thar's work to be done you shuck off yore shirt an' do it like a wild-cat a-scratchin'.”

No one spoke after this outburst for several minutes, though the glances cast in his direction showed the embarrassed ex-moonshiner that one and all had sanctioned Abner Daniel's opinion.

Bishop leaned forward and looked at the clock, and seeing that it was nine, he put the money in a bureau-drawer and turned the key. Then he took down the big family Bible from its shelf and sat down near the lamp. They all knew what the action portended.

“That's another thing,” smiled Abner Daniel, while his brother-in-law was searching for his place in the big Book. “Money may be a bad thing, a cuss an' a evil, an' what not, but Alf 'ain't felt like holdin' prayer sence the bad news come; an' now that he's got the scads once more the fust thing is an appeal to the Throne. Yes, it may be a bad thing, but sometimes it sets folks to singin' an' shoutin'. Ef I was a-runnin' of the universe, I believe I'd do a lots o' distributin' in low places. I'd scrape off a good many tops an' level up more. Accordin' to some, the Lord's busy watchin' birds fall to the ground. I reckon our hard times is due to them pesky English sparrows that's overrun ever'thing.”

“You'd better dry up, Uncle Ab,” said Pole Baker. “That's the kind o' talk that made brother Dole jump on you.”

“Huh! That's a fact,” said Daniel; “but this is in the family.”

Then Bishop began to read in his even, declamatory voice, and all the others looked steadily at the fire in the chimney, their faces lighted up by the flickering flames.

When they had risen from their knees after prayer, Pole looked at Abner with eyes from which shot beams of amusement. He seemed to enjoy nothing so much as hearing Abner's religious opinions.

“You say this thing has set Mr. Bishop to prayin', Uncle Ab?” he asked.

“That's what,” smiled Abner, who had never admired Baker so much before. “Ef I stay heer, an' they ever git that railroad through, I'm goin' to have me a pair o' knee-pads made.”

XXVIII

BOUT a week after the events recorded in the preceding chapter, old man Bishop, just at dusk one evening, rode up to Pole Baker's humble domicile.

Pole was in the front yard making a fire of sticks, twigs, and chips.

“What's that fer?” the old man questioned, as he dismounted and hitched his horse to the worm fence.

“To drive off mosquitoes,” said Pole, wiping his eyes, which were red from the effects of the smoke. “I 'll never pass another night like the last un ef I kin he'p it. I 'lowed my hide was thick, but they bored fer oil all over me from dark till sun-up. I never 've tried smoke, but Hank Watts says it's ahead o' pennyr'yal.”

“Shucks!” grunted the planter, “you ain't workin' it right. A few rags burnin' in a pan nigh yore bed may drive 'em out, but a smoke out heer in the yard 'll jest drive 'em in.”

“What?” said Pole, in high disgust. “Do you expect me to sleep sech hot weather as this is with a fire nigh my bed? The durn things may eat me raw, but I 'll be blamed ef I barbecue myse'f to please 'em.”

Mrs. Baker appeared in the cabin-door, holding two of the youngest children by their hands. “He won't take my advice, Mr. Bishop,” she said. “I jest rub a little lamp-oil on my face an' hands an' they don't tetch me.” Pole grunted and looked with laughing eyes at the old man.

“She axed me t'other night why I'd quit kissin' 'er,” he said. “An' I told 'er I didn't keer any more fer kerosene than the mosquitoes did.”

Mrs. Baker laughed pleasantly, as she brought out a chair for Bishop and invited him to sit down. He complied, twirling his riding-switch in his hand. From his position, almost on a level with the floor, he could see the interior of one of the rooms. It was almost bare of furniture. Two opposite corners were occupied by crude bedsteads; in the centre of the room was a cradle made from a soap-box on rockers sawn from rough poplar boards. It had the appearance of having been in use through several generations. Near it stood a spinning-wheel and a three-legged stool. The sharp steel spindle gleamed in the firelight from the big log and mud chimney.

“What's the news from town, Mr. Bishop?” Pole asked, awkwardly, for it struck him that Bishop had called to talk with him about some business and was reluctant to introduce it.

“Nothin' that interests any of us, I reckon, Pole,” said the old man, “except I made that investment in Shoal Cotton Factory stock.”

“That's good,” said Pole, in the tone of anybody but a man who had never invested a dollar in anything. “It's all hunkey, an' my opinion is that it 'll never be wuth less.”

“I did heer, too,” added Bishop, “that it was reported that Craig had set up a little grocery store out in Texas, nigh the Indian Territory. Some thinks that Winship 'll turn up thar an' jine 'im, but a body never knows what to believe these days.”

“That shore is a fact,” opined Pole. “Sally, that corn-bread's a-burnin'; ef you'd use less lamp-oil you'd smell better.”

Mrs. Baker darted to the fireplace, raked the live coals from beneath the cast-iron oven, and jerked off the lid in a cloud of steam and smoke. She turned over the pone with the aid of a case-knife, and then came back to the door.

“Fer the last month I've had my eye on the Bascome farm,” Bishop was saying. “Thar's a hundred acres even, some good bottom land and upland, an' in the neighborhood o' thirty acres o' good wood. Then thar's a five-room house, well made an' tight, an' a barn, cow-house, an' stable.”

“Lord! I know the place like a book,” said Pole; “an' it's a dandy investment, Mr. Bishop. They say he offered it fer fifteen hundred. It's wuth two thousand. You won't drap any money by buyin' that property, Mr. Bishop. I'd hate to contract to build jest the house an' well an' out-houses fer a thousand.”

“I bought it,” Bishop told him. “He let me have it fer a good deal less 'n fifteen hundred, cash down.”

“Well, you made a dandy trade, Mr. Bishop. Ah, that's what ready money will do. When you got the cash things seem to come at bottom figures.”

Old Bishop drew a folded paper from his pocket and slapped it on his knee. “Yes, I closed the deal this evenin', an' I was jest a-thinkin' that as you hain't rented fer next yeer--I mean--” Bishop was ordinarily direct of speech, but somehow his words became tangled, and he delivered himself awkwardly on this occasion. “You see, Alan thinks that you 'n Sally ort to live in a better house than jest this heer log-cabin, an'--”

The wan face of the tired woman was aglow with expectation. She sank down on the doorstep, and sat still and mute, her hands clasping each other in her lap. She had always disliked that cabin and its sordid surroundings, and there was something in Bishop's talk that made her think he was about to propose renting the new farm, house and all, to her husband. Her mouth fell open; she scarcely allowed herself to breathe. Then, as Bishop paused, her husband's voice struck dumb dismay to her heart. It was as if she were falling from glowing hope back to tasted despair.

“Thar's more land in that farm an' I could do jestice to, Mr. Bishop; but ef thar's a good cabin on it an' you see fit to cut off enough fer me'n one hoss I'd jest as soon tend that as this heer. I want to do what you an' Alan think is best all'round.”

“Oh, Pole, Pole!” The woman was crying it to herself, her face lowered to her hands that the two men might not see the agony written in her eyes. A house like that to live in, with all those rooms and fireplaces, and windows with panes of glass in them! She fancied she saw her children playing on the tight, smooth floors and on the honeysuckled porch. For one minute these things had been hers, to be snatched away by the callous indifference of her husband, who, alas! had never cared a straw for appearances.

“Oh, I wasn't thinking about _rentin'_ it to you,” said Bishop, and the woman's dream was over. She raised her head, awake again. “You see,” went on Bishop, still struggling for proper expression, “Alan thinks--well, he thinks you are sech a born fool about not acceptin' help from them that feels nigh to you, an' I may as well say grateful, exceedingly grateful, fer what you've done, things that no other livin' man could 'a' done. Alan thinks you ort to have the farm fer yore own property, an' so the deeds has been made out to--”

Pole drew himself up to his full height. His big face was flushed, half with anger, half with a strong emotion of a tenderer kind. He stood towering over the old man like a giant swayed by the warring winds of good and evil, “I won't heer a word more of that, Mr. Bishop,” he said, with a quivering lip; “not a word more. By golly! I mean what I say. I don't want to heer another word of it. This heer place is good enough fer me an' my family. It's done eight yeer, an' it kin do another eight.”

“Oh, Pole, Pole, _Pole!_” The woman's cry was now audible. It came straight from her pent-up, starving soul and went right to Bishop's heart.

“You want the place, don't you, Sally?” he said, calling her by her given name for the first time, as if he had just discovered their kinship. He could not have used a tenderer tone to child of his own.

“Mind, mind what you say, Sally!” ordered Pole, from the depths of his fighting emotions. “Mind what you say!”

The woman looked at Bishop. Her glance was on fire.

“Yes, I want it--I _want_ it!” she cried. “I ain't goin' to lie. I want it more right now than I do the kingdom of heaven. I want it ef we have a right to it. Oh, I don't know.” She dropped her head in her lap and began to sob.

Bishop stood up. He moved towards her in a jerky fashion and laid his hand on the pitifully tight knot of hair at the back of her head.

“Well, it's yores,” he said. “Alan thought Pole would raise a kick agin it, an' me'n him had it made out in yore name, so he couldn't tetch it. It's yores, Sally Ann Baker. That's the way it reads.”

The woman's sobs increased, but they were sobs of unbridled joy. With her apron to her eyes she rose and hurried into the house.

The eyes of the two men met. Bishop spoke first:

“You've got to give in, Pole,” he said. “You'd not be a man to stand betwixt yore wife an' a thing she wants as bad as she does that place, an', by all that's good an' holy, you sha 'n' t.”

“What's the use o' me tryin' to git even with Alan,” Pole exclaimed, “ef he's eternally a-goin' to git up some 'n'? I've been tickled to death ever since I cornered old Craig till now, but you an' him has sp'iled it all by this heer trick. It ain't fair to me.”

“Well, it's done,” smiled the old man, as he went to his horse; “an' ef you don't live thar with Sally, I 'll make 'er git a divorce.”

Bishop had reached a little pig-pen in a fence-corner farther along, on his way home, when Mrs. Baker suddenly emerged from a patch of high corn in front of him.

“Is he a-goin' to take it, Mr. Bishop?” she asked, panting from her hurried walk through the corn that hid her from the view of the cabin.

“Yes,” Bishop told her; “I'm a-goin' to send two wagons over in the morning to move yore things. I wish it was ten times as good a place as it is, but it will insure you an' the children a living an' a comfortable home.”

After the manner of many of her kind, the woman uttered no words of thanks, but simply turned back into the corn, and, occupied with her own vision of prosperity and choking with gratitude, she hurried back to the cabin.

XXIX

HE summer ended, the autumn passed, 'and Christmas approached. Nothing of much importance had taken place among the characters of this little history. The Southern Land and Timber Company, and Wilson in particular, had disappointed Miller and Alan by their reticence in regard to the progress of the railroad scheme. At every meeting with Wilson they found him either really or pretendedly indifferent about the matter. His concern, he told them, was busy in other quarters, and that he really did not know what they would finally do about it.

“He can' t pull the wool over my eyes,” Miller told his friend, after one of these interviews. “He simply thinks he can freeze you out by holding off till you have to raise money.”

“He may have inquired into my father's financial condition,” suggested Alan, with a long face.

“Most likely,” replied the lawyer.

“And discovered exactly where we stand.”

“Perhaps, but we must not believe that till we know it. I'm going to try to checkmate him. I don't know how, but I 'll think of something. He feels that he has the upper hand now, but I 'll interest him some of these days.”

Alan's love affair had also been dragging. He had had numerous assurances of Dolly's constancy, but since learning how her father had acted the night he supposed she had eloped with Alan, her eyes had been opened to the seriousness of offending Colonel Barclay. She now knew that her marriage against his will would cause her immediate disinheritance, and she was too sensible a girl to want to go to Alan without a dollar and with the doors of her home closed against her. Besides, she believed in Alan' s future. She, somehow, had more faith in the railroad than any other interested person. She knew, too, that she was now more closely watched than formerly. She had, with firm finality, refused Frank Hillhouse's offer of marriage, and that had not helped her case in the eyes of her exasperated parent. Her mother occupied neutral ground; she had a vague liking for Alan Bishop, and, if the whole truth must be told, was heartily enjoying the situation. She was enjoying it so subtly and so heartily, in her own bloodless way, that she was at times almost afraid of its ending suddenly.

On Christmas Eve Adele was expected home from Atlanta, and Alan had come in town to meet her. As it happened, an accident delayed her train so that it would not reach Darley till ten o' clock at night instead of six in the evening, so there was nothing for her brother to do but arrange for their staying that night at the Johnston House. Somewhat to Alan' s surprise, who had never discovered the close friendship and constant correspondence existing between Miller and his sister, the former announced that he was going to spend the night at the hotel and drive out to the farm with them the next morning. Of course, it was agreeable, Alan reflected, but it was a strange thing for Miller to propose.

From the long veranda of the hotel after supper that evening the two friends witnessed the crude display of holiday fireworks in the street below. Half a dozen big bonfires made of dry-goods boxes, kerosene and tar barrels, and refuse of all kinds were blazing along the main street. Directly opposite the hotel the only confectionery and toy store in the place was crowded to overflowing by eager customers, and in front of it the purchasers of fireworks were letting them off for the benefit of the bystanders. Fire-crackers were exploded by the package, and every now and then a clerk in some store would come to the front door and fire off a gun or a revolver.

All this noise and illumination was at its height when Adele's train drew up in the car-shed. The bonfires near at hand made it as light as day, and she had no trouble recognizing the two friends.

“Oh, what an awful racket!” she exclaimed, as she released herself from Alan' s embrace and gave her hand to Miller.

“It's in your honor,” Miller laughed, as, to Alan' s vast astonishment, he held on to her hand longer than seemed right. “We ought to have had the brass band out.”

“Oh, I'm so glad to get home,” said Adele, laying her hand on Miller's extended arm. Then she released it to give Alan her trunk-checks. “Get them, brother,” she said. “Mr. Miller will take care of me. I suppose you are not going to drive home to-night.”

“Not if you are tired,” said Miller, in a tone Alan had never heard his friend use to any woman, nor had he ever seen such an expression on Miller's face as lay there while the lawyer's eyes were feasting themselves on the girl's beauty.