Part 11

They were walking towards Floyd's store, and Pole paused in the street. “Are you busy right now, Nelson?” he asked, his face wearing a serious look.

“Not at all, Pole.”

“Well, I've got some'n' to say to you, Nelson. I'm goin' to acknowledge that thar's one thing I've wanted to do fer you more, by hunkey, than anything in the world. Nelson, I've always hoped that I'd run across some clew that 'ud eventually lead to you findin' out who yore kin are.”

“That's good of you, Pole,” responded Floyd, in a sincere tone. “It is a thing I am more interested in than anything else in the world.” The young merchant laughed mechanically. “Pole, if the lowest-looking tramp you ever saw in your life were to come here, and I found out he was even a distant cousin of mine, I'd look on him with reverence. I'd fit him out in new clothes and give him money, and never want to lose sight of him. Why I feel that way I don't know, but it is planted deep down inside.”

“I knew you felt that away,” said Pole, “and, as I say, I want to help. Now, Nelson, all my life folks has said I was keen about tracin' things out. In my moonshinin' day, an' since then, in helpin' old Ab Daniel an' Alan Bishop in that timber deal, an' in one way an' another, I've always been good at readin' men an' the'r faces an' voices. Now, I reckon what Captain Duncan said that day about his talk with that feller Floyd--Henry A. Floyd--in Atlanta went in at one o' yore ears an' out at t'other, but it didn't with me. I've studied about that thing night an' day ever since, an' yesterday I had a talk with Duncan. I made 'im go over what him an' Floyd said, word fer word, an' I'm here to tell you that I want yore consent to see that old man myself. I've got to go down to the United States court to-morrow to see Judge Spence, about leniency in old Paxton's moonshine case, an' I'll have time on my hands. I wish you'd consent to let me talk, in a roundabout way, of course, to that man Floyd. Captain Duncan made a big mistake in sayin' so much about yore bad luck in yore childhood an' nothin' about what you've since made of yourself. A man as pore as Floyd is, an' as proud, wouldn't care to rake up kin with a man like Duncan showed you to be. The captain had an idea that ef he got the old chap's pity up he'd find out what he wanted to know, but a man of that stripe don't pity no unfortunate man nor want to claim kin with 'im. From the way Duncan talked to me, I have an idea that old man was keepin' back some'n'.”

Floyd was looking at his rough friend with eyes full of emotion. “I'd rather have you do a thing of that kind, Pole, than any man alive,” he said. “And I can trust your judgment and tact, too. I confess I am not hopeful in that particular direction, but if you want to see the man, why, do it. I certainly appreciate your interest, and next time I hope you will not wait to ask my consent. I trust the whole matter to you.”

“Well,” the mountaineer smiled, “I may be away off in my calculations, and make nothin' by it, but I want to try my hand. Thar comes Colonel Price. I'll bet a new hat he'll come to yore offer before long. You jest keep a stiff upper lip, an' don't bring up the subject of yore own accord; he'll do the talkin'.”

XIX

WHEN he had finished his interview with Judge Spence in Atlanta the next day, Pole went to a drug-store and looked up the address of Henry A. Floyd in the city directory. The old bachelor lived on Peachtree Street, about half a mile from the Union Depot, in a rather antiquated story-and-a-half frame house, which must have been built before the Civil War. The once white paint on its outside had turned to a weather-beaten gray, and the old-fashioned blinds, originally bright green in color, had faded, and hung loosely on rusty hinges. There was a little lawn in front which stretched from the gateless iron fence to the low-floored veranda, but it held scarcely a tuft of grass, the ground being bare in some places and in others weed-grown. Pole went to the door and rang. He was kept waiting for several minutes before a middle-aged woman, evidently a servant of all work or house-keeper, appeared.

“Is Mr. Floyd about?” Pole asked, politely, doffing his slouch hat.

“He's back in the garden behind the house,” the woman said. “If you'll wait here I'll go call him.”

“All right, ma'am,” Pole said. “I'll wait; I've got plenty o' time.” She went away, and he sat down on a rickety bench on the veranda, his hat still in his hands, his eyes on the passing carriages and street-cars.

Presently the owner of the house appeared round the corner. He was tall, clerical looking, ashy as to complexion, slightly bald, had sunken cheeks over which grew thin, iron-gray side-whiskers, and a despondent stoop.

“I'll have to git at that old skunk through his pocket,” Pole reflected, as his keen eyes took in every detail of the man's make-up. “He looks like he's bothered about some'n', an' a man like that's hard to git pinned down; an' ef I don't git 'im interested, he'll kick me out o' this yard. I'll be derned ef he don't favor Nelson a little about the head an' eyes.”

“How are you, Mr. Floyd?” Pole stood up and extended his hand. “Baker's my name, sir; from up the country. I was on yore farm in Bartow not long ago, an' I sorter liked the lay o' the land. Bein' as I was down here on business, anyhow, I 'lowed I'd drap in an' ax ef you had any part o' that place you'd care to rent. I've jest got two hosses, but I want to put in about thirty acres.”

A slight touch of life seemed to struggle into the wan face of the old man for a moment.

“I've got just about that many acres unrented,” he said. “The rest is all let out. You'd have good neighbors, Mr.--”

“Baker, sir--Pole Baker,” the caller put in.

“And good fertile land, too, Mr. Baker. May I ask if you intend to rent on the part-crop plan or for cash?”

Pole's eyes twinkled as they rested on a pair of fine horses and glittering carriage that were passing. “Ef I rent _yore'n_, Mr. Floyd, I'll pay cash.”

“Well, that certainly is the wisest plan, Mr. Baker.” There was a still greater show of life in the old man's face; in fact, he almost smiled. “Come inside a minute. I've got a map of my property, showing just how each section lies and how it's drained and watered.” He opened the door and led Pole into a wide hall, and thence, to the right, into a big, bare-looking parlor. “Have a seat, Mr. Baker; my desk is in the little room adjoining.” Pole sat down, crossed his long legs, and put his hat on his knee. When he found himself alone he smiled. “Captain Duncan thought a crabbed old cuss like that 'ud be interested in pore kin,” he mused. “Huh! nothin' short o' Vanderbilts an' Jay Goulds 'ud start his family pulse to beatin'. Le' me see, now, how I'd better begin to--”

“Here it is, Mr. Baker.” Floyd entered with a map and pencil in his hand. “If you looked the place over when you were there, you may remember that the creek winds round from the bridge to the foot of the hill. Well, right in there--”

“I know, and that's dandy land, Mr. Floyd,” Pole broke in. “That's as good as you got, I reckon.”

“The very best, Mr. Baker--in fact, it's the part I always rent for cash. I have to have ready money for taxes and interest and the like, you know, and when I strike a man who is able to pay in advance, why, I can make him a reasonable figure, and he gets the best.”

“It's got a good house on it, too, I believe?” Pole was stroking his chin with a thoughtful air.

“Six rooms, and a well and stable and good cow-house, Mr. Baker.” Old Floyd was actually beaming.

“Does the roof leak?” Pole looked at him frankly. “I won't take my wife and children into a leaky house, Mr. Floyd. If I pay out my money, I want ordinary comfort.”

“Doesn't leak a drop, Mr. Baker.”

Pole stroked his chin for another minute. He was looking down at the worn carpet, but he felt Floyd's eyes fastened eagerly on him.

“Well, what's yore figure, Mr. Floyd?”

“Two hundred dollars a year--half when you move in, and the rest a month later.” The old man seemed to hold his breath. The paper which he was folding quivered.

“Well, I wouldn't kick about the price,” Pole said. “The only thing that--” Pole seemed to hesitate for a moment, then he went on. “I never like to act in a hurry in important business matters, an' I generally want to be sorter acquainted with a man I deal with. You see, ef I moved on that place it 'ud be to stay a long time, an' thar'd be things on _yore_ side to do year after year. I generally ax fer references, but I'm a-goin' to be straight with you, Mr. Floyd; somehow, I feel all right about you. I like yore face. The truth is, you have a strong favor to a feller up our way. He's the richest young man we got, an' the finest ever God's sun shone on. An' as soon as I heard yore name was Floyd--the same as his is--somehow I felt like you an' him was kin, an' that I wouldn't lose by dealin' with you. Blood will tell, you know.”

“Why, who do you mean?” The old man stared in pleased surprise. “All the Floyds I know were broken up by the war. I must say none of them are really rich.”

“This Floyd is, you kin bet yore boots on that,” Pole said, enthusiastically. “He owns mighty nigh the whole o' our county; he's the biggest moneylender and investor in stocks and bonds I know of. He's fine all round: he'd fight a buzz-saw barehanded; he's got more friends than you kin shake a stick at; he could walk into Congress any election ef he'd jest pass the word out that he wanted the job.”

“Why, this is certainly news to me,” the old man said. “And you say he resembles me?”

“Got yore eyes to a T, an' long, slim hands like yore'n, an' the same shape o' the head an' neck! Why, shorely you've heard o' Nelson Floyd, junior member o' Mayhew & Floyd, of Springtown, the biggest dealers o' farm supplies in--”

“Oh, Nelson Floyd! Why--why, surely there must be some mistake. He hasn't made money, has he? Why, the only time I ever heard of him he was in destitute circumstances, and--”

“Destitute hell!--I beg yore pardon, Mr. Floyd, that slipped out. But that feller's not only not destitute, but he's the _friend_ o' the destitute. What he does fer the pore an' sufferin' every year 'ud start many a man in life.”

A flush had crept into Floyd's face, and he leaned forward in warm eagerness. “The truth is, Mr. Baker, that Nelson Floyd is the only child of all the brother I ever had.”

“You _don't say!_” exclaimed Pole, holding the old man's eyes firmly, “which brother was that?”

“Charles Nelson--two years younger than I am. The truth is, he and I became estranged. He broke my mother's heart, Mr. Baker. He was very wild and dissipated, though he died bravely in battle. I would have looked after his son, but I lost sight of him and his mother after the war, and, then, I had my own troubles. There are circumstances, too, which I don't care to go over with a--a stranger. But I'm glad the young man has done well. The first I heard of him was about ten years ago. He was then said to be a sort of wild mountain outlaw. It was not natural for me to feel pride in him, or--”

“He _was_ wild about that time,” Pole said, as he stood up to go, “but he settled down and made a man of hisse'f. I'll let you know about that land, Mr. Floyd. Ef you don't hear from me by--this is Tuesday, ain't it?--ef you don't hear from me by Saturday, you may know that my wife has decided to stay on up the country.”

“But”--Floyd's face had fallen--“I hope nothing won't interfere with our deal, Baker. I'd like to have you on my place. I really would.”

“All right, we'll live in hopes,” said the mountaineer, “ef we die in despair,” and Pole went out into the sunlight.

“Now, Poley,” he chuckled, “who said you couldn't git all you was after? But _lie!_ My Lord, I don't know when I'll ever git all that out o' my body. I feel like I am literally soaked in black falsehood, like a hide in a vat at a tanyard. It's leakin' out o' the pores o' my skin an' runnin' down into my socks. But that dried-up old skunk made me do it. Ef he hadn't a-been so 'feared o' pore kin, I wouldn't 'a' had to sink so low. Well, I've got news fer Nelson, an' that's what I was after.”

XX

IT was ten o'clock that night when the stage, or “hack,” as it was called, put Pole down in the square at Springtown. He went directly to Floyd's store, hoping to see the young man before he went to bed, but the long building was wrapped in darkness. Pole went over to the little hotel where Floyd roomed. The proprietor, Jerry Malone, and two tobacco drummers sat smoking on the veranda.

“He's jest this minute gone up to his room,” the landlord said, in response to Baker's inquiry as to the whereabouts of his friend. “It's the fust door to the right, at the top o' the steps.”

Pole went up and knocked on Floyd's door, and the young merchant called out, “Come in.”

Baker opened the door, finding the room in darkness. From the bed in the corner Floyd's voice came: “Is that you, Pole?”

“Yes, I jest got back, Nelson. I went to the store expectin' to find you at work, an' then Jerry told me you was up here.”

“Light the lamp, Pole,” Floyd said. “There are some matches on that table right under your hand.”

“Oh, I hain't got long to stay,” returned the mountaineer, “an' I don't need a light to talk by, any more'n a blind man does to write his letters. I 'lowed I'd tell you what I done down thar. I seed Floyd.”

“Oh, you did! After you left I got really interested in your venture, and I was afraid you might accidentally miss him.”

“Yes, I seed 'im.” Pole found a chair and sat down at the little table, resting his hand on it, and tilting the chair back, after his favorite method of making himself comfortable. There was a lamp on a post in front of the hotel and its light came through a window and faintly illuminated the room. Pole could see the white covering of Floyd's bed and the outline of the young man's head and shoulders against a big feather pillow.

“You say you saw him?” Floyd's voice was eager and restrained.

“Yes, an' I got news fer you, Nelson--substantial news. Henry A. Floyd is yore own uncle.”

“Good God, Pole!”--Floyd sat up in bed--“don't make any mistakes. You say he is actually--”

“I ain't makin' no mistakes,” replied Pole. “He's the only brother of yore daddy, Charles Nelson Floyd. That old cuss told me so, an' I know he was tellin' me a straight tale.”

There was silence. Floyd pulled his feet from beneath the coverings and sat up on the bedside. He seemed unable to speak, and, leaning forward in his chair, the ex-moonshiner recounted in careful detail all that had passed between him and the man he had visited. For several minutes after Pole had concluded the merchant sat without visible movement, then Pole heard him take a long, deep breath.

“Well, I hope you are satisfied with what I done,” said Pole, tentatively.

“Satisfied! Great Heavens!” cried Floyd,' “I simply don't know what to say to it--how to tell you what I feel. Pole, I'll bet I'm having the oddest experience that ever came to mortal man. I don't know how to explain it, or make you understand. When a baby's born it's too young to wonder or reflect over its advent into the world, but to-night, after all my years of life, I feel--Pole, I feel somehow as if I were suddenly born again. That dark spot on my history has been in my mind almost night and day ever since I was old enough to compare myself to others. Persons who have strong physical defects are often morbidly sensitive over them. That flaw in my life was my eternally sore point. And my mother”--Floyd's voice sank reverently--“did he say who she was?”

“No, we didn't git fur enough,” Pole returned. “You see, Nelson, I got that information by pretendin' to be sorter indifferent about you, an' ef I'd 'a' axed too many questions, the old codger 'ud 'a' suspicioned my game. Besides, as I told you, he wasn't willin' to talk perfectly free. Although yore daddy's in the grave, the old man seems to still bear a sort o' grudge agin 'im, an' that, in my opinion, accounts fer him not helpin' you out when you was a child.”

“Ah, I see,” said Floyd; “my father was wild as a young man?”

“Yes, that's the way he put it,” answered Baker; “but I wouldn't let that bother me, Nelson. Ef yore daddy'd 'a' lived longer, no doubt, he'd 'a' settled down like you have. But he passed away in a good cause. It ort to be a comfort to know he died in battle.”

“Yes, that's a comfort,” said Floyd, thoughtfully.

“An' now you've got plenty o' kin,” Pole said, with a pleasant laugh. “I come over in the hack with Colonel Price and Captain Duncan, an' you ort to 'a' heard 'em both spout about the Floyds an' the Nelsons. They say yore blood's as blue as indigo, my boy, an' that they suspected it all along, on account o' yore pluck and determination to win in ever' game you tackled. Lord, you bet they'll be round to-morrow to give you the hand o' good-fellowship an' welcome you into high life. I reckon you'll sorter cut yore mountain scrub friends.”

“I haven't any scrub friends,” said Floyd, with feeling. “I don't know that you boast of your ancestry, Pole, but you are as high above the kind of man that does as the stars are above the earth.”

“Now you are a-kiddin' me!” said Baker. He put out his hand on the table and felt something smooth and cool under his touch. He drew it to him. It was a pint flask filled with whiskey. He held it up with a laugh. “Good Lord, what are you doin' with this bug-juice?” he asked.

“Oh, you mean that bottle of rye,” said Floyd. “I've kept that for a memento of the day I swore off, Pole, five years ago. I thought as long as I could pass it day after day and never want to uncork it, that it was a sign I was safely anchored to sobriety.”

There was a little squeak like that of a frightened mouse. Pole had twisted the cork out and was holding the neck of the bottle to his nose.

“Gee whiz!” he exclaimed. “That stuff smells _fine!_ You say it's five years old, Nelson?”

“Yes, it's almost old enough to vote,” Floyd laughed. “It was very old and mellow when I got it.”

The cork squeaked again Pole had stopped the bottle. It lay flat under his big, pulsating hand. His fingers played over it caressingly. “I wouldn't advise you to keep it under yore eye all the time, Nelson,” he said. “I tried that dodge once an' it got the best o' my determination.”

“I sometimes feel the old desire come over me,” said Floyd; “often when my mind is at rest after work, and even while I am at it, but it is never here in my room in the presence of that memento. It seems to make a man of me. I pity a drinking man, Pole. I know what he has to fight, and I feel now that if I were to lose all hope in life that I'd take to liquor as naturally as a starving man would to food.”

“I reckon,” said Pole, in a strange, stilled voice. His fingers were now tightly clasped about the bottle. There was a pause, then he slid it cautiously--very cautiously--towards him. He swallowed something that was in his throat; his eyes were fixed in a great, helpless stare on the dim figure across the room. Noiselessly the bottle was raised, and noiselessly it went down into the pocket of his coat.

“I feel like I owe you my life, Pole,” Floyd continued, earnestly. “You've done to-day what no one else could have done. If that old man had died without speaking of this matter I'd perhaps never have known the truth. Pole, you can call on me for anything you want that is in my power to give. Do you understand me, Pole, old friend?--anything--anything!”

There was silence. Pole sat staring vacantly in front of him. Floyd rose in slow surprise and came across the room. Pole stood up suddenly, his hand on the weighty pocket. Quickly he shifted to a darker portion of the room nearer the door.

“What's the matter, Pole?” Floyd asked, in surprise.

“Matter? Why, nothin', Nelson.” Baker laughed mechanically. “I was jest thinkin' that I ought to be in bed. I've told you all I kin, I guess.”

“You were so quiet just now that I thought--really, I didn't know what to think. I was telling you--”

“I know, Nelson.” Baker's unsteady hand was on the latch of the door. “Never you mind, I'll call on you if I want anything. I've got yore friendship, I reckon, an' that's enough fer me.”

He opened the door and glided out into the hall. “Good-night, Nelson.”

“Good-night, Pole, good-night. God bless you, old man!”

On the lonely road leading to his house the mountaineer stopped and drew the bottle from his pocket. “You dem little devil!” he said, playfully, holding it up before his eyes in the starlight. “Here I've gone all day in Atlanta, passin' ten 'thousand barroom doors, swearin' by all that was holy that I'd fetch Nelson Floyd his news with a sober head on my shoulders an' a steady tongue _in_ that head; an' I rid, too, by hunkey, all the way from Darley out here with a hack-driver smellin' like a bung-hole, with two quarts under his seat an' no tellin' how many under his hide. I say I got through all that, although my jaws was achin' tell they felt like they was loose at the sockets, an' I 'lowed I'd slide safe to the home-base, when _you_--you crawled up under my nose in the dark like a yaller lizard, with that dern tale about yore ripe old age an' kingly flavor. '_Memento_' hell!” Pole was using Floyd's word for the first time. “I'd like to know what sort of a memento you'd make outside of a man's stomach. No, Poley, I reckon you've reached yore limit.”

The mouse squeaked again. Pole chuckled. He held the flask aloft and shook it.

“Gentlemen,” he said to the countless stars winking merrily down from above, “take one with me,” and he drank.

XXI

TWO days after this, Nathan Porter brought home the news of what had happened to Floyd. The family were seated at the dinner-table when he came in warm from his walk along the dusty road. He started to sit down in his place without his coat, but Cynthia rose and insisted on his donning it.

“Folks is sech eternal fools!” he said, as he helped his plate to a green hillock of string-beans, from the sides of which protruded bowlders of gray bacon, and down which ran rivulets of grease.

“What have they been doing now?” asked his wife, curiously.

“They hain't doin' nothin' in town but talkin',” Porter said, in a tone of disgust. “Looks like all business has come to a dead halt, so that everybody kin exchange views about what Nelson Floyd has discovered about his kin. He's found a man--or Pole Baker did fer 'im, when Pole was drunk down in Atlanta--who don't deny he's his uncle--his daddy's own brother--an' you'd think Floyd had unearthed a gold-mine, from all the talk an' well-wishin' among the elect. Old Duncan an' Colonel Price helt a whole crowd spellbound at the post-office this mornin' with the'r tales about the past power an' grandeur of the Nelson an' Floyd families in America, an' all they'd done fer the'r country an' the like.”

“Father, is this true?” Cynthia asked, her face almost pale in suppressed excitement.