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.”