ABNER DANIEL

By Will N. Harben

Author Of “Westerfelt”

New York and London

Harper And Brothers

1902

TO

MY SISTER

MRS. RAY KNIGHT

ABNER DANIEL

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VI

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

XXIX

XXX

XXXI

XXXII

XXXIII

XXXIV

XXXV

ABNER DANIEL

I

HE young man stood in the field road giving directions to a robust negro who was ploughing the corn, which, in parallel rows, stretched on to the main road a quarter of a mile distant. The negro placed the point of his ploughshare a few inches from the first stalk of corn, wound the line around his wrist, and clucked to his horse. With a jangling jerk of the trace-chains the animal lunged ahead: the polished ploughshare cut into the mellow soil and sped onward, curling the gray earth like shavings, and uprooting and burying the tenacious crab-grass and succulent purslane.

It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining brightly, but the atmosphere had dropped a dim veil over the near-by mountain. Even the two-storied farm-house, with its veranda and white columns, to which the field road led up a gradual slope, showed only its outlines. However, Alan Bishop, as he steadied his gaze upon the house, saw the figure of an elderly woman come out of the gate and with a quick step hurry down to him. It was his mother; she was tall and angular, and had high cheek-bones and small blue eyes. She had rather thin gray hair, which was wound into a knot behind her head, and over it she wore only a small red breakfast shawl which she held in place by one of her long hands.

“Alan,” she said, panting from her brisk walk, “I want you to come to the house right off. Mr. Trabue has come to see yore pa again an' I can't do a thing with 'im.”

“Well, what does he want with him?” asked the young man. His glance was on the ploughman and his horse. They had turned the far end of the corn-row and were coming back, only the nodding head of the animal being visible beyond a little rise.

“He's come to draw up the papers fer another land trade yore pa's makin'. He's the lawyer fer the Tompkins estate. Yore pa tried to buy the land a yeer ago, but it wasn't in shape to dispose of. Oh, Alan, don't you see he's goin' to ruin us with his fool notions? Folks all about are a-laughin' at him fer buyin' so much useless mountain-land. I'm powerful afeered his mind is wrong.”

“Well, mother, what could I do?” Alan Bishop asked impatiently. “You know he won't listen to me.”

“I reckon you can' t stop 'im,” sighed the woman, “but I wish you'd come on to the house. I knowed he was up to some 'n'. Ever'day fer the last week he's been ridin' up the valley an' rollin' and tumblin' at night an' chawin' ten times as much tobacco as he ort. Oh, he's goin' to ruin us! Brother Abner says he is buyin' beca'se he thinks it's goin' to advance in value, but sech property hain't advanced a speck sence I kin remember, an' is bein' sold ever' yeer fer tax money.”

“No, it's very foolish of him,” said the young man as the two turned towards the house. “Father keeps talking about the fine timber on such property, but it is entirely too far from a railroad ever to be worth anything. I asked Rayburn Miller about it and he told me to do all I could to stop father from investing, and you know he's as sharp a speculator as ever lived; but it's his money.”

There was a paling fence around the house, and the enclosure was alive with chickens, turkeys, geese, ducks, and peafowls. In the sunshine on the veranda two pointers lay sleeping, but at the sound of the opening gate they rose, stretched themselves lazily, and gaped.

“They are in the parlor,” said Mrs. Bishop, as she whisked off her breakfast shawl. “Go right in, I 'll come in a minute. I want to see how Linda is makin' out with the churnin'. La! I feel like it's a waste o' time to do a lick o' work with him in thar actin' like a child. Ef we both go in together it 'll look like we've concocked somethin', but we must stop 'im ef we kin.”

Alan went into the parlor on the left of the wide, uncarpeted hall. The room had white plastered walls, but the ceiling was of boards planed by hand and painted sky blue. In one corner stood a very old piano with pointed, octagonal legs and a stool with hair-cloth covering. The fireplace was wide and high, and had a screen made of a decorated window-shade tightly pasted on a wooden frame. Old man Bishop sat near a window, and through his steel-framed nose-glasses was carefully reading a long document written on legal-cap paper. He paid no attention to the entrance of his son, but the lawyer, a short, fat man of sixty-five with thick black hair that fell below his coat-collar, rose and extended his hand.

“How's Alan?” he asked, pleasantly. “I saw you down in the field as I come along, but I couldn't catch your eye. You see I'm out after some o' your dad's cash. He's buying hisse'f rich. My Lord! if it ever does turn his way he 'll scoop in enough money to set you and your sister up for life. Folks tell me he owns mighty near every stick of timber-land in the Cohutta Valley, and what he has he got at the bottom figure.”

“If it ever turns his way,” said Alan; “but do you see any prospect of it's ever doing so, Mr. Trabue?” The lawyer shrugged his shoulders. “I never bet on another man's trick, my boy, and I never throw cold water on the plans of a speculator. I used to when I was about your age, but I saw so many of 'em get rich by paying no attention to me that I quit right off. A man ought to be allowed to use his own judgment.” Old Bishop was evidently not hearing a word of this conversation, being wholly absorbed in studying the details of the deed before him. “I reckon it's all right,” he finally said. “You say the Tompkins children are all of age?”

“Yes, Effie was the youngest,” answered Trabue, “and she stepped over the line last Tuesday. There's her signature in black and white. The deed's all right. I don't draw up any other sort.”

Alan went to his father and leaned over him. “Father,” he said, softly, and yet with firmness, “I wish you'd not act hastily in this deal. You ought to consider mother's wishes, and she is nearly distracted over it.”

Bishop was angry. His massive, clean-shaven face was red. “I'd like to know what I'd consult her fer,” he said. “In a matter o' this kind a woman's about as responsible as a suckin' baby.”

Trabue laughed heartily. “Well, I reckon it's a good thing your wife didn't hear that or she'd show you whether she was responsible or not. I couldn't have got the first word of that off my tongue before my wife would 'a' knocked me clean through that wall.”

Alfred Bishop seemed not to care for levity during business hours, for he greeted this remark only with a frown. He scanned the paper again and said: “Well, ef thar's any flaw in this I reckon you 'll make it right.”

“Oh yes, I 'll make any mistake of mine good,” returned Trabue. “The paper's all right.”

“You see,” said Alan to the lawyer, “mother and I think father has already more of this sort of property than he can carry, and—”

“I wish you and yore mother'd let my business alone,” broke in Bishop, firing up again. “Trabue heer knows I've been worryin' 'im fer the last two months to get the property in salable shape. Do you reckon after he gets it that away I want to listen to yore two tongues a-waggin' in open opposition to it?”

Trabue rubbed his hands together. “It really don't make a bit of difference to me, Alan, one way or the other,” he said, pacifically. “I'm only acting as attorney for the Tompkins estate, and get my fee whether there's a transfer or not. That's where I stand in the matter.”

“But it's not whar I stand in it, Mr. Trabue,” said a firm voice in the doorway. It was Mrs. Bishop, her blue eyes flashing, her face pale and rigid. “I think I've got a right—and a big one—to have a say-so in this kind of a trade. A woman 'at 's stayed by a man's side fer thirty odd yeer an' raked an' scraped to he'p save a little handful o' property fer her two children has got a right to raise a rumpus when her husband goes crooked like Alfred has an' starts in to bankrupt 'em all jest fer a blind notion o' his'n.”

“Oh, thar you are!” said Bishop, lifting his eyes from the paper and glaring at her over his glasses. “I knowed I'd have to have a knock-down-an'-drag-out fight with you 'fore I signed my name, so sail in an' git it over. Trabue's got to ride back to town.”

“But whar in the name o' common-sense is the money to come from?” the woman hurled at her husband, as she rested one of her bony hands on the edge of the table and glared at him. “As I understand it, thar's about five thousand acres in this piece alone, an' yo're a-payin' a dollar a acre. Whar's it a-comin' from, I'd like to know? Whar's it to come from?”

Bishop sniffed and ran a steady hand over his short, gray hair. “You see how little she knows o' my business,” he said to the lawyer. “Heer she's raisin' the devil an' Tom Walker about the trade an' she don't so much as know whar the money's to come from.”

“How was I to know?” retorted the woman, “when you've been tellin' me fer the last six months that thar wasn't enough in the bank to give the house a coat o' fresh paint an' patch the barn roof.”

“You knowed I had five thousand dollars wuth o' stock in the Shoal River Cotton Mills, didn't you?” asked Bishop, defiantly, and yet with the manner of a man throwing a missile which he hoped would fall lightly.

“Yes, I knowed that, but—” The woman's eyes were two small fires burning hungrily for information beyond their reach.

“Well, it happens that Shoal stock is jest the same on the market as ready money, up a little to-day an' down to-morrow, but never varyin' more'n a fraction of a cent on the dollar, an' so the Tompkins heirs say they'd jest as lieve have it, an' as I'm itchin' to relieve them of the'r land, it didn't take us long to come together.”

If he had struck the woman squarely in the face, she could not have shown more surprise. She became white to the lips, and with a low cry turned to her son. “Oh, Alan, don't—don't let 'im do it, it's all we have left that we can depend on! It will ruin us!”

“Why, father, surely,” protested Alan, as he put his arm around his mother, “surely you can't mean to let go your mill investment which is paying fifteen per cent, to put the money into lands that may never advance in value and always be a dead weight on your hands! Think of the loss of interest and the taxes to be kept up. Father, you must listen to—”

“Listen to nothin',” thundered Bishop, half rising from his chair. “Nobody axed you two to put in. It's my business an' I'm a-goin' to attend to it. I believe I'm doin' the right thing, an' that settles it.”

“The right thing,” moaned the old woman, as she sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands. “Mr. Trabue,” she went on, fiercely, “when that factory stock leaves our hands we won't have a single thing to our names that will bring in a cent of income. You kin see how bad it is on a woman who has worked as hard to do fer her children as I have. Mr. Bishop always said Adele, who is visitin' her uncle's family in Atlanta, should have that stock for a weddin'-gift, ef she ever married, an' Alan was to have the lower half of this farm. Now what would we have to give the girl—nothin' but thousands o' acres o' hills, mountains an' gulches full o' bear, wild-cats, and catamounts—land that it ud break any young couple to hold on to—much less put to any use. Oh, I feel perfectly sick over it.”

There was a heavy, dragging step in the hall, and a long, lank man of sixty or sixty-five years of age paused in the doorway. He had no beard except a tuft of gray hair on his chin, and his teeth, being few and far between, gave to his cheeks a hollow appearance. He was Abner Daniel, Mrs. Bishop's bachelor brother, who lived in the family.

“Hello!” he exclaimed, shifting a big quid of tobacco from one cheek to the other; “plottin' agin the whites? Ef you are, I 'll decamp, as the feller said when the bull yeerlin' butted 'im in the small o' the back. How are you, Mr. Trabue? Have they run you out o' town fer some o' yore legal rascality?”

“I reckon your sister thinks it's rascality that's brought me out to-day,” laughed the lawyer. “We are on a little land deal.”

“Oh, well, I 'll move on,” said Abner Daniel. “I jest wanted to tell Alan that Rigg's hogs got into his young corn in the bottom jest now an' rooted up about as many acres as Pole Baker's ploughed all day. Ef they'd a-rooted in straight rows an' not gone too nigh the stalks they mought 'a' done the crap more good than harm, but the'r aim or intention, one or t'other, was bad. Folks is that away; mighty few of 'em root—when they root at all—fer anybody but the'rse'ves. Well, I 'll git along to my room.”

“Don't go, brother Ab,” pleaded his sister. “I want you to he'p me stand up fer my rights. Alfred is about to swap our cotton-mill stock fer some more wild mountain-land.”

In spite of his natural tendency to turn everything into a jest—even the serious things of life—the sallow face of the tall man lengthened. He stared into the faces around him for a moment, then a slow twinkle dawned in his eye.

“I've never been knowed to take sides in any connubial tustle yet,” he said to Trabue, in a dry tone. “Alf may not know what he's about right now, but he's Solomon hisse'f compared to a feller that will undertake to settle a dispute betwixt a man an' his wife—more especially the wife. Geewhilikins! I never shall forget the time old Jane Hardeway come heer to spend a week an' Alf thar an' Betsy split over buyin' a hat-rack fer the hall. Betsy had seed one over at Mason's, at the camp-ground, an' determined she'd have one. Maybe you noticed that fancy contraption in the hall as you come in. Well, Alf seed a nigger unloadin' it from a wagon at the door one mornin', an' when Betsy, in feer an' tremblin', told 'im what it was fer he mighty nigh had a fit. He said his folks never had been above hangin' the'r coats an' hats on good stout nails an' pegs, an' as fer them umbrella-pans to ketch the drip, he said they was fancy spit-boxes, an' wanted to know ef she expected a body to do the'r chawin' an' smokin' in that windy hall. He said it jest should not stand thar with all them prongs an' arms to attack unwary folks in the dark, an' he toted it out to the buggy-shed. That got Betsy's dander up an' she put it back agin the wall an' said it ud stay thar ef she had to stand behind it an' hold it in place. Alf wasn't done yet; he 'lowed ef they was to have sech a purty trick as that on the hill it had to stay in the best room in the house, so he put it heer in the parlor by the piano. But Betsy took it back two or three times an' he larnt that he was a-doin' a sight o' work fer nothin', an' finally quit totin' it about. But that ain't what I started in to tell. As I was a-sayin', old Jane Hardeway thought she'd sorter put a word in the dispute to pay fer her board an' keep, an' she told Betsy that it was all owin' to the way the Bishops was raised that Alf couldn't stand to have things nice about 'im. She said all the Bishops she'd ever knowed had a natural stoop that they got by livin' in cabins with low roofs. She wasn't spreadin' 'er butter as thick as she thought she was—ur maybe it was the sort she was spreadin '—fer Betsy blazed up like the woods afire in a high wind. It didn't take old Jane long to diskiver that thar was several breeds o' Bishops out o' jail, an' she spent most o' the rest o' her visit braggin' on some she'd read about. She said the name sounded like the start of 'em had been religious an' substanch.”

“Brother Abner,” whined Mrs. Bishop, “I wisht you'd hush all that foolishness an' help me 'n the children out o' this awful fix. Alfred always would listen to you.”

“Well,” and the old man smiled, and winked at the lawyer, “I 'll give you both all the advice I kin. Now, the Shoal River stock is a good thing right now; but ef the mill was to ketch on fire an' burn down thar'd be a loss. Then as fer timber-land, it ain't easy to sell, but it mought take a start before another flood. I say it mought, an' then agin it moughtn't. The mill mought burn, an' then agin it moughtn't. Now, ef you-uns kin be helped by this advice you are welcome to it free o' charge. Not changin' the subject, did you-uns know Mrs. Richardson's heffer's got a calf? I reckon she won't borrow so much milk after hers gits good.”

Trabue smiled broadly as the gaunt man withdrew; but his amusement was short-lived, for Mrs. Bishop began to cry, and she soon rose in despair and left the room. Alan stood for a moment looking at the unmoved face of his father, who had found something in the last clause of the document which needed explanation; then he, too, went out.

II

LAN found his uncle on the back porch washing his face and hands in a basin on the water-shelf. The young man leaned against one of the wooden posts which supported the low roof of the porch and waited for him to conclude the puffing, sputtering operation, which he finally did by enveloping his head in a long towel hanging from a wooden roller on the weather-boarding.

“Well,” he laughed, “yore uncle Ab didn't better matters in thar overly much. But what could a feller do? Yore pa's as bull-headed as a young steer, an' he's already played smash anyway. Yore ma's wastin' breath; but a woman seems to have plenty of it to spare. A woman' s tongue's like a windmill—it takes breath to keep it a-goin', an' a dead calm ud kill her business.”

“It's no laughing matter, Uncle Ab,” said Alan, despondently. “Something must have gone wrong with father's judgment. He never has acted this way before.”

The old man dropped the towel and thrust his long, almost jointless fingers into his vest pocket for a horn comb which folded up like a jack-knife. “I was jest a-wonderin',” as he began to rake his shaggy hair straight down to his eyes—“I was jest a-wonderin' ef he could 'a' bent his skull in a little that time his mule th'owed 'im agin the sweet-gum. They say that often changes a body powerful. Folks do think he's off his cazip on the land question, an' now that he's traded his best nest-egg fer another swipe o' the earth's surface, I reckon they 'll talk harder. But yore pa ain't no fool; no plumb idiot could 'a' managed yore ma as well as he has. You see I know what he's accomplished, fer I've been with 'em ever since they was yoked together. When they was married she was as wild as a buck, an' certainly made our daddy walk a chalk-line; but Alfred has tapered 'er down beautiful. She didn't want this thing done one bit, an' yet it is settled by this time”—the old man looked through the hall to the front gate—“yes, Trabue's unhitchin'; he's got them stock certificates in his pocket, an' yore pa has the deeds in his note-case. When this gits out, moss-backs from heer clean to Gilmer 'll be trapsin' in to dispose o' land at so much a front foot.”

“But what under high heaven will he do with it all?”

“Hold on to it,” grinned Abner, “that is, ef he kin rake an' scrape enough together to pay the taxes. Why, last yeer his taxes mighty nigh floored 'im, an' the expenses on this county he's jest annexed will push 'im like rips; fer now, you know, he 'll have to do without the income on his factory stock; but he thinks he's got the right sow by the yeer. Before long he may yell out to us to come he'p 'im turn 'er loose, but he's waltzin' with 'er now.”

At this juncture Mrs. Bishop came out of the dining-room wiping her eyes on her apron.

“Mother,” said Alan, tenderly, “try not to worry over this any more than you can help.”

“Your pa's gettin' old an' childish,” whimpered Mrs. Bishop. “He's heerd somebody say timber-land up in the mountains will some day advance, an' he forgets that he's too old to get the benefit of it. He's goin' to bankrupt us.”

“Ef I do,” the man accused thundered from the hall, as he strode out, “it 'll be my money that's lost—money that I made by hard work.”

He stood before them, glaring over his eye-glasses at his wife. “I've had enough of yore tongue, my lady; ef I'd not had so much to think about in thar jest now I'd 'a' shut you up sooner. Dry up now—not another word! I'm doin' the best I kin accordin' to my lights to provide fer my children, an' I won't be interfered with.”

No one spoke for a moment. However, Mrs. Bishop finally retorted, as her brother knew she would, in her own time.

“I don't call buyin' thousands o' acres o' unsalable land providin' fer anything, except the pore-house,” she fumed.

“That's beca'se you don't happen to know as much about the business as I do,” said Bishop, with a satisfied chuckle, which, to the observant Daniel, sounded very much like exultation. “When you all know what I know you 'll be laughin' on t'other sides o' yore mouths.”

He started down the steps into the yard as if going to the row of bee-hives along the fence, but paused and came back. He had evidently changed his mind. “I reckon,” he said, “I 'll jest have to let you all know about this or I won't have a speck o' peace from now on. I didn't tell you at fust beca'se nobody kin keep a secret as well as the man it belongs to, an' I was afeerd it ud leak out an' damage my interests; but this last five thousand acres jest about sweeps all the best timber in the whole Cohutta section, an' I mought as well let up. I reckon you all know that ef—I say ef—my land was nigh a railroad it ud be low at five times what I paid fer it, don't you? Well, then! The long an' short of it is that I happen to be on the inside an' know that a railroad is goin' to be run from Blue Lick Junction to Darley. It 'll be started inside of the next yeer an' 'll run smack dab through my property. Thar now, you know more'n you thought you did, don't you?”

The little group stared into his glowing face incredulously.

“A railroad is to be built, father?” exclaimed Alan.

“That's what I said.”

Mrs. Bishop's eyes flashed with sudden hope, and then, as if remembering her husband's limitations, her face fell.

“Alfred,” she asked, sceptically, “how does it happen that you know about the railroad before other folks does?”

“How do I? That's it now—how do I?” and the old man laughed freely. “I've had my fun out o' this thing, listenin' to what every crank said about me bein' cracked, an' so on; but I was jest a-lyin' low waitin' fer my time.”

“Well, I 'll be switched!” ejaculated Abner Daniel, half seriously, half sarcastically. “Geewhilikins! a railroad! I've always said one would pay like rips an' open up a dern good, God-fersaken country. I'm glad you are a-goin' to start one, Alfred.”

Alan's face was filled with an expression of blended doubt and pity for his father's credulity. “Father,” he said, gently, “are you sure you got your information straight?”

“I got it from headquarters.” The old man raised himself on his toes and knocked his heels together, a habit he had not indulged in for many a year. “It was told to me confidentially by a man who knows all about the whole thing, a man who is in the employ o' the company that's goin' to build it.”

“Huh!” the exclamation was Abner Daniel's, “do you mean that Atlanta lawyer, Perkins?”

Bishop stared, his mouth lost some of its pleased firmness, and he ceased the motion of his feet.

“What made you mention his name?” he asked, curiously.

“Oh, I dunno; somehow I jest thought o' him. He looks to me like he mought be buildin' a railroad ur two.”

“Well, that's the man I mean,” said Bishop, more uneasily.

Somehow the others were all looking at Abner Daniel, who grunted suddenly and almost angrily.

“I wouldn't trust that skunk no furder'n I could fling a bull by the tail.”

“You say you wouldn't?” Bishop tried to smile, but the effort was a facial failure.

“I wouldn't trust 'im nuther, brother Ab,” chimed in Mrs. Bishop. “As soon as I laid eyes on 'im I knowed he wouldn't do. He's too mealy-mouthed an' fawnin'. Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth; he bragged on ever'thing we had while he was heer. Now, Alfred, what we must git at is, what was his object in tellin' you that tale.”

“Object?” thundered her husband, losing his temper in the face of the awful possibility that her words hinted at. “Are you all a pack an' passle o' fools? If you must dive an' probe, then I 'll tell you he owns a slice o' timber-land above Holley Creek, j'inin' some o' mine, an' so he let me into the secret out o' puore good will. Oh, you all cayn't skeer me; I ain't one o' the skeerin' kind.”

But, notwithstanding this outburst, it was plain that doubt had actually taken root in the ordinarily cautious mind of the crude speculator. His face lengthened, the light of triumph went out of his eyes, leaving the shifting expression of a man taking desperate chances.

Abner Daniel laughed out harshly all at once and then was silent. “What's the matter?” asked his sister, in despair.

“I was jest a-wonderin',” replied her brother.

“You are?” said Bishop, angrily. “It seems to me you don't do much else.”

“Folks 'at wonders a lot ain't so apt to believe ever'thing they heer,” retorted Abner. “I was just a-wonderin' why that little, spindle-shanked Peter Mosely has been holdin' his head so high the last week or so. I 'll bet I could make a durn good guess now.”

“What under the sun's Peter Mosely got to do with my business?” burst from Bishop's impatient lips.

“He's got a sorter roundabout connection with it, I reckon,” smiled Abner, grimly. “I happen to know that Abe Tompkins sold 'im two thousand acres o' timber-land on Huckleberry Ridge jest atter yore Atlanta man spent the day lookin' round in these parts.”

Bishop was no fool, and he grasped Abner's meaning even before it was quite clear to the others.

“Looky heer,” he said, sharply, “what do you take me fur?”

“I'ain't tuck you fer nothin',” said Abner, with a grin. “Leastwise, I'ain't tuck you fer five thousand dollars' wuth o' cotton-mill stock. To make a long story short, the Atlanta jack-leg lawyer is akin to the Tompkins family some way. I don't know exactly what kin, but Joe Tompkins's wife stayed at Perkins's house when she was down thar havin' er spine straightened. I'd bet a new hat to a ginger-cake that Perkins never owned a spoonful o' land up heer, an' that he's jest he'pin' the Tompkins folks on the sly to unload some o' the'r land, so they kin move West, whar they've always wanted to go. Peter Mosely is a man on the watch-out fer rail soft snaps, an' when Perkins whispered the big secret in his yeer, like he did to you, he started out on a still hunt fer timbered land on the line of the proposed trunk line due west vy-ah Lickskillet to Darley, with stop-over privileges at Buzzard Roost, an' fifteen minutes fer hash at Dog Trot Springs. Then, somehow or other, by hook or crook—mostly crook—Abe Tompkins wasn't dodgin' anybody about that time; Peter Mosely could 'a' run agin 'im with his eyes shut on a dark night. I was at Neil Fulmore's store when the two met, an' ef a trade was ever made quicker betwixt two folks it was done by telegraph an' the paper was signed by lightnin'. Abe said he had the land an' wouldn't part with it at any price ef he hadn't been bad in need o' money, fer he believed it was chuck-full o' iron ore, soapstone, black marble, an' water-power, to say nothin' o' timber, but he'd been troubled so much about cash, he said, that he'd made up his mind to let 'er slide an' the devil take the contents. I never seed two parties to a deal better satisfied. They both left the store with a strut. Mosely's strut was the biggest, fer he wasn't afeerd o' nothin'. Tompkins looked like he was afeerd Mosely ud call 'im back an' want to rue.”

“You mean to say—” But old Bishop seemed unable to put his growing fear into words.

“Oh, I don't know nothin' fer certain,” said Abner Daniel, sympathetically; “but ef I was you I'd go down to Atlanta an' see Perkins. You kin tell by the way he acts whether thar's anything in his railroad story or not; but, by gum, you ort to know whar you stand. You've loaded yorese'f from hind to fore quarters, an' ef you don't plant yore feet on some'n you 'll go down.”

Bishop clutched this proposition as a drowning man would a straw. “Well, I will go see 'im,” he said. “I 'll go jest to satisfy you. As fer as I'm concerned, I know he wasn't tellin' me no lie; but I reckon you all never 'll rest till you are satisfied.”

He descended the steps and crossed the yard to the barn. They saw him lean over the rail fence for a moment as if in troubled thought, and then he seemed to shake himself, as if to rid himself of an unpleasant mental burden, and passed through the little sagging gate into the stable to feed his horses. It was now noon. The sun was shining broadly on the fields, and ploughmen were riding their horses home in their clanking harnesses.

“Poor father,” said Alan to his uncle, as his mother retired slowly into the house. “He seems troubled, and it may mean our ruin—absolute ruin.”

“It ain't no triflin' matter,” admitted Daniel. “Thar's no tellin' how many thousand acres he may have bought; he's keepin' somethin' to hisse'f. I remember jest when that durn skunk of a lawyer put that flea in his yeer. They was at Hanson's mill, an' talked confidential together mighty nigh all mornin'. But let's not cross a bridge tell we git to it. Let's talk about some'n else. I hain't never had a chance to tell you, but I seed that gal in town yesterday, an' talked to 'er.”

“Did you, Uncle Ab?” the face of the young man brightened. His tone was eager and expectant.

“Yes, I'd hitched in the wagon-yard an' run into Hazen's drug-store to git a box o' axle-grease, an' was comin' out with the durn stuff under my arm when I run upon 'er a-settin' in a buggy waitin' to git a clerk to fetch 'er out a glass o' sody-water. She recognized me, an' fer no other earthly reason than that I'm yore uncle she spoke to me as pleasin' as a basket o' chips. What was I to do? I never was in such a plight in my life. I'd been unloadin' side-meat at Bartow's warehouse, an' was kivered from head to foot with salt and grease. I didn't have on no coat, an' the seat o' my pants was non est—I don't think thar was any est about 'em, to tell the truth; but I knowed it wouldn't be the part of a gentleman to let 'er set thar stretchin' 'er neck out o' socket to call a clerk when I was handy, so I wheeled about, hopin' an' prayin' ef she did look at me she'd take a fancy to the back o' my head, an' went in the store an' told 'em to git a hustle on the'r-se'ves. When I come out, she hauled me up to ax some questions about when camp-meetin' was goin' to set in this yeer, and when Adele was comin' home. I let my box o' axle-grease drap, an' it rolled like a wagon-wheel off duty, an' me after it, bendin'—bendin' of all positions—heer an' yan in the most ridiculous way. I tell you I'd never play croquet ur leapfrog in them pants. All the way home I thought how I'd disgraced you.”

“Oh, you are all right, Uncle Ab,” laughed Alan. “She's told me several times that she likes you very much. She says you are genuine—genuine through and through, and she's right.”

“I'd ruther have her say it than any other gal I know,” said Abner. “She's purty as red shoes, an', ef I'm any judge, she's genuwine too. I've got another idee about 'er, but I ain't a-givin' it away jest now.”

“You mean that she—”

“No,” and the old man smiled mischievously, “I didn't mean nothin' o' the sort. I wonder how on earth you could 'a' got sech a notion in yore head. I'm goin' to see how that black scamp has left my cotton land. I 'll bet he hain't scratched it any deeper'n a old hen would 'a' done lookin' fer worms.”