HERE is a certain class of individuals that will gather around a man in misfortune, and it differs very little, if it differs at all, from the class that warms itself in the glow of a man' s prosperity. It is made up of human failures, in the first instance, congratulating themselves on not being alone in bad luck; in the second, desirous of seeing how a fortunate man would look and act and guessing at his feelings. From the appearance of Bishop's home for the first fortnight after his return from Atlanta, you would have thought that some one was seriously ill in the house or that some general favorite had returned to the family after a long absence.

Horses were hitched to the fence from the front gate all the way round to the side entrance. The mountain people seemed to have left their various occupations to subtly enjoy the spectacle of a common man like themselves who had reached too far after forbidden fruit and lay maimed and torn before them. It was a sort of feast at which the baser part of their spiritual natures was fed, and, starved as they were, it tasted good. Many of them had never aspired to bettering their lot even with small ventures such as buying Jersey cows at double the value of common cattle when it was reported that the former gave four times as much milk and ate less, and to these cautious individuals Bishop's visible writhing was sweet confirmation of their own judgment.

Their disapproval of the old man's effort to hurry Providence could not have been better shown than in the failure of them all to comment on the rascally conduct of the Atlanta lawyer; they even chuckled over that part of the incident. To their minds Perkins was a sort of far-off personification of a necessary evil—who, like the devil himself, was evidently created to show mortals their limitations. They were not going to say what the lawyer had a right to do or should avoid doing, for they didn't pretend to know; but they did know what their old neighbor ought to have done, and if they didn't tell him so to his face they would let him see it by their actions. Yes, Bishop was a different thing altogether. He belonged to them and theirs. He led in their meetings, prayed in public, and had till now headed the list in all charitable movements.

The Reverend Charles B. Dole, a tall, spare man of sixty, who preached the first, second, third, and fourth Sundays of each month in four different meetinghouses within a day's ride of Bishop's, came around as the guest of the farm-house as often as his circuit would permit. He was called the “fightin' preacher,” because he had had several fearless hand-to-hand encounters with certain moonshiners whose conduct he had ventured to call ungodly, because unlawful.

On the second Saturday after Bishop's mishap, as Dole was to preach the next day at Rock Crest meetinghouse, he rode up as usual and turned his horse into the stable and fed him with his own hands. Then he joined Abner Daniel on the veranda. Abner had seen him ride up and purposely buried his head in his newspaper to keep from offering to take the horse, for Abner did not like the preacher “any to hurt,” as he would have put it.

Dole did not care much for Abner either. They had engaged in several doctrinal discussions in which the preacher had waxed furious over some of Daniel's views, which he described as decidedly unorthodox. Daniel had kept his temper beautifully and had the appearance of being amused through it all, and this Dole found harder to forgive than anything Abner had said.

“You all have had some trouble, I heer, sence I saw you last,” said the preacher as he sat down and began to wipe his perspiring brow with a big handkerchief.

“Well, I reckon it mought be called that,” Abner replied, as he carefully folded his newspaper and put it into his coat-pocket. “None of us was expectin' of it an' it sorter bu'sted our calculations. Alf had laid out to put new high-back benches in Rock Crest, an' new lamps an' one thing another, an' it seems to me”—Abner wiped his too facile mouth—“like I heerd 'im say one day that you wasn't paid enough fer yore thunder, an' that he'd stir around an' see what could be done.” Abner's eyes twinkled. “But lawsy me! I reckon ef he kin possibly raise the scads to pay the tax on his investment next yeer he 'll do all the Lord expects.”

“Huh, I reckon!” grunted Dole, irritated as usual by Abner's double meaning. “I take it that the Lord hain't got much to do with human speculations one way or other.”

“Ef I just had that scamp that roped 'im in before me a minute I'd fix 'im,” said Abner. “Do you know what denomination Perkins belongs to?”

“No, I don't,” Dole blurted out, “an' what's more, I don't care.”

“Well, I acknowledge it sorter interests me,” went on our philosopher, in an inscrutable tone, “beca'se, brother Dole, you kin often trace a man' s good ur bad doin' s to his belief in Bible matters. Maybe you don't remember Jabe Lynan that stold Thad Wilson's stump-suckin' hoss an' was ketched an' put up. I was at the court-house in Darley when he received his sentence. His wife sent me to 'im to carry his pipe an' one thing or other—a pair o' socks an' other necessary tricks—a little can o' lye-soap, fer one thing. She hadn't the time to go, as she said she had a patch o' young corn to hoe out. I found 'im as happy as ef he was goin' off on a excursion. He laughed an' 'lowed it ud be some time 'fore he got back, an' I wondered what could 'a' made him so contented, so I made some inquiries on that line. I found that he was a firm believer in predestination, an' that what was to be was foreordained. He said that he firmly believed he was predestinated to go to the coal-mines fer hoss-stealin', an' that life was too short to be kickin' agin the Lord's way o' runnin' matters; besides, he said, he'd heerd that they issued a plug o'.tobacco a week to chawin' prisoners, an' he could prove that he was one o' that sort ef they'd look how he'd ground his jaw-teeth down to the gums.”

“Huh!” grunted Dole again, his sharp, gray eyes on Abner's face, as if he half believed that some of his own theories were being sneered at. It was true that he, being a Methodist, had not advocated a belief in predestination, but Abner Daniel had on more than one occasion shown a decided tendency to bunch all stringent religious opinions together and cast them down as out of date. When in doubt in a conversation with Abner, the preacher assumed a coldness on the outside that was often not consistent with the fires within him. “I don't see what all that's got to do with brother Bishop's mistake,” he said, frigidly, as he leaned back in his chair.

“It sets me to wonderin' what denomination Perkins belongs to, that's all,” said Abner, with another smile. “I know in reason he's a big Ike in some church in Atlanta, fer I never knowed a lawyer that wasn't foremost in that way o' doin' good. I 'll bet a hoe-cake he belongs to some highfalutin crowd o' worshippers that kneel down on saft cushions an' believe in scoopin' in all they kin in the Lord's name, an' that charity begins at home. I think that myse'f, brother Dole, fer thar never was a plant as hard to git rooted as charity is, an' a body ought to have it whar they kin watch it close. It 'll die a heap o' times ef you jest look at it, an' it mighty nigh always has bad soil ur a drougth to contend with.”

Just then Pole Baker, who has already been introduced to the reader, rode up to the fence and hitched his horse. He nodded to the two men on the veranda, and went round to the smoke-house to get a piece of bacon Bishop had promised to sell him on credit.

“Huh!” Dole grunted, and he crossed his long legs and swung his foot up and down nervously. He had the look of a man who was wondering why such insufferable bores as Abner should so often accompany a free dinner. He had never felt drawn to the man, and it irritated him to think that just when his mental faculties needed rest, Abner always managed to introduce the very topics which made it necessary for him to keep his wits about him.

“Take that feller thar,” Abner went on, referring to Baker. “He's about the hardest customer in this county, an' yet he's bein' managed right now. He's got a wife an' seven children an' is a holy terror when he gits drunk. He used to be the biggest dare-devil moonshiner in all these mountains; but Alan kept befriendin' 'im fust one way an' another tell he up one day an' axed Alan what he could do fer 'im. Alan ain't none o' yore shoutin' kind o' Christians. He shakes a nimble toe at a shindig when he wants to, an' knows the ace from a ten-spot; but he gits thar with every claw in the air when some 'n' has to be done. So, when Pole axed 'im that, Alan jest said, as quiet as ef he was axin' 'im fer a match to light a cigar, 'Quit yore moonshinin', Pole.' That was all he said. Pole looked 'im straight in the eye fer a minute, an' then said:

“'The hell you say! By God, Alan Bishop, you don't mean that!'

“'Yes, I do, Pole,' said Alan, 'quit! Quit smack off!'

“'You ax that as a favor?' said Pole.

“'Yes, as a favor,' said Alan, 'an' you are a-goin' to do it, too.'

“Then Pole begun to contend with 'im. 'You are a-axin' that beca'se you think I 'll be ketched up with,' he said; 'but I tell you the' ain't no man on the face o' the earth that could find my still now. You could stand in two feet of the door to it all day an' not find it if you looked fer it with a spy-glass. I kin make bug-juice all the rest o' my life an' sell it without bein' ketched.'

“'I want you to give it up,' said Alan, an' Pole did. It was like pullin' an eye-tooth, but Pole yanked it out. Alan is workin' on 'im now to git 'im to quit liquor, but that ain't so easy. He could walk a crack with a gallon sloshin' about in 'im. Now, as I started to say, Alan 'ain't got no cut-and-dried denomination, an' don't have to walk any particular kind o' foot-log to do his work, but it's a-goin' on jest the same. Now I don't mean no reflection on yore way o' hitchin' wings on folks, but I believe you could preach yore sermons—sech as they are—in Pole Baker's yeers till Gabriel blowed his lungs out, an' Pole ud still be moonshinin'. An' sometimes I think that sech fellers as Alan Bishop ort to be paid fer what they do in betterin' the world. I don't see why you fellers ort always to be allowed to rake in the jack-pot unless you'd accomplish more'n outsiders, that jest turn the'r hands to the job at odd times.”

Dole drew himself up straight and glared at the offender.

“I think that is a rather personal remark, brother Daniel,” he said, coldly.

“Well, maybe it is,” returned Abner; “but I didn't mean fer it to be. I've heerd you praise up certain preachers fer the good they was a-doin', an' I saw no harm in mentionin' Alan's method. I reckon it's jest a case o' the shoe bein' on another foot. I was goin' to tell you how this misfortune o' Alf's had affected Pole; he's been like a crazy man ever since it happened. It's been all Alan could do to keep 'im from goin' to Atlanta and chokin' the life out o' Perkins. Pole got so mad when he wouldn't let 'im go that he went off cussin' 'im fer all he was worth. I wonder what sort of a denomination a man ud fit into that 'll cuss his best friends black an' blue beca'se they won't let 'im fight fer 'em. Yes, he 'll fight, an' ef he ever does jine the ranks above he 'll do the work o' ten men when thar's blood to spill. I seed 'im in a row once durin' election when he was leggin' fer a friend o' his'n; he stood right at the polls an' wanted to slug every man that voted agin 'im. He knocked three men's teeth down the'r throats an' bunged up two more so that they looked like they had on false-faces.”

Here the preacher permitted himself to laugh. Being a fighting man himself, his heart warmed towards a man who seemed to be born to that sort of thing.

“He looks like he could do a sight of it,” was his comment.

At this juncture the subject of the conversation came round the house, carrying a big piece of bacon wrapped in a tow grain-bag.

“Say thar, Pole,” Abner called out to the long, lank fellow. “We are a-goin' to have preachin' at Rock Crest to-morrow; you'd better have a shirt washed an' hung out to dry. They are a-beatin' the bushes fer yore sort.”

Pole Baker paused and brushed back his long, thick hair from his heavy eyebrows.

“I've been a-waitin' to see ef meetin' ever'd do you any good, Uncle Ab,” he laughed. “They tell me the more you go the wuss you git to be. Neil Filmore said t'other day ef you didn't quit shootin' off yore mouth they'd give you a trial in meetin'.”

Abner laughed good-naturedly as he spat over the edge of the veranda floor to the ground.

“That's been talked, I know, Pole,” he said, “but they don't mean it. They all know how to take my fun. But you come on to meetin'; it will do you good.”

“Well, maybe I will,” promised Pole, and he came to the steps, and, putting his bacon down, he bent towards them.

“It's a powerful hard matter to know exactly what's right an' what's wrong, in some things,” he said. “Now looky heer.” Thrusting his hand down into the pocket of his trousers he drew out a piece of quartz-rock with a lump of yellow gold about the size of a pea half embedded in it. “That thar's puore gold. I got it this away: A feller that used to be my right bower in my still business left me when I swore off an' went over to Dalonega to work in them mines. T'other day he was back on a visit, an' he give me this chunk an' said he'd found it. Now I know in reason that he nabbed it while he was at work, but I don't think I'd have a right to report it to the minin' company, an' so I'm jest obleeged to receive stolen goods. It ain't wuth more'n a dollar, they tell me, an' I 'll hang on to it, I reckon, ruther'n have a laborin' man discharged from a job. I'm tryin' my level best to live up to the line now, an' I don't know how to manage sech a thing as that. I've come to the conclusion that no harm will be done nohow, beca'se miners ain't too well paid anyway, an' ef I jest keep it an' don't git no good out of it, I won't be in it any more'n ef I'd never got hold o' the blamed thing.”

“But the law, brother Baker,” said Dole, solemnly; “without the law we'd be an awful lot o' people, an' every man ort to uphold it. Render the things that are Caesar's unto Caesar.”

Pole's face was blank for a moment, and Abner came to his rescue with a broad smile and sudden laugh.

“I reckon you don't remember him, Pole,” he said. “He's dead. He was a nigger that used to belong to old man Throgmartin in the cove. He used to be sech an awful thief during slavery days that it got to be a common sayin' that everything lyin' round mought as well be his'n, fer he'd take it sooner ur later, anyways.”

“I've heerd o' that nigger,” said Pole, much to the preacher's disgust, which grew as Pole continued: “Well, they say a feller that knows the law is broke an' don't report it is as guilty as the man who does the breakin'. Now, Mr. Dole, you know how I come by this nugget, an' ef you want to do your full duty you 'll ride over to Dalonega an' report it to the right parties. I can't afford the trip.”

Abner laughed out at this, and then forced a serious look on his face. “That's what you railly ort to do, brother Dole,” he said. “Them CÆsars over thar ud appreciate it.”

Then Mrs. Bishop came out to shake hands with the preacher, and invited him to go to his room to wash his face and hands. As the tall man followed his hostess away, Abner winked slyly at Pole and laughed under his long, scrawny hand.

“Uncle Ab, you ort to be killed,” smiled Pole. “You've been settin' heer the last half-hour pokin' fun at that feller, an' you know it. Well, I'm goin' on home. Sally's a-goin' to fry some o' this truck fer me, an' I'm as hungry as a bear.”

A few minutes after he had gone, Dole came out of his room and sat down in his chair again. “That seems to be a sorter bright young man,” he remarked.

“As bright as a new dollar,” returned Abner, in a tone of warm admiration. “Did you notice that big, wedge-shaped head o' his'n? It's plumb full o' brains. One day a feller come down to Filmore's store. He made a business o' feelin' o' heads an' writin' out charts at twenty-five cents apiece. He didn't waste much time on the rest o' the scabs he examined; but when he got to Pole's noggin he talked fer a good hour. I never heerd the like. He said ef his talents had been properly directed Pole ud 'a' made a big public man. He said he hadn't run across sech a head in a month o' Sundays. He was right, you bet, an' every one o' the seven brats Pole's got is jest as peert as he is. They are a-growin' up in idleness an' rags, too. I wisht I could meet some o' them dum big Yankees that are a-sendin' the'r money down heer an' buildin' fine schools to educate niggers an' neglectin' the'r own race beca'se it fit agin 'em. You cayn't hardly beat larnin' into a nigger's head, an' it ud be only common-sense to spend money whar it ud do the most good. I 'ain't got nothin' agin a nigger bein' larnt to read an' write, but I cayn't stomach the'r bein' forced ahead o' deservin' white folks sooner 'n the Lord counted on. Them kind o' Yankees is the same sort that makes pets o' dogs, an' pampers 'em up when pore white children is in need of food an' affection.”

“Pole looks like he had natural capacity,” said Dole. He was fond of conversing with Abner on any topic except that of religious matters.

“He'd make a bang-up detective,” laughed Abner. “One day I was at Filmore's store. Neil sometimes, when he's rushed, gits Pole to clerk fer 'im, beca'se he's quick at figures. It happened that Pole had the store to 'imse'f one day when Neil had gone off to cut down a bee-tree with a passle o' neighbors, an' a triflin' feller come in an' begun to nose about. An' when Pole's back was turned to weigh up some cotton in the seed he stole a pocket-book out o' the show-case. I reckon Pole didn't like his looks much nohow, fer as soon as the skunk had gone he begun to look about to see ef he'd tuck anything. All at once he missed the pocket-book, an' told Neil that night that he was mighty nigh shore the feller lifted it, but he couldn't railly swear to it. About a week after that he seed the same feller comin' down the road headed fer the store on his gray mule. Me 'n' Neil was both thar an' Pole hustled us in the back room, an' told us to stay thar. He said he was a-goin' to find out ef the feller stold the book. Neil was afeerd of a row an' tried to prevent 'im, but he jest shoved us back an' shet the door on us. Neil got 'im a crack in the partition an' I found me a knothole.

“The feller hitched an' come in an' said howdy-do, an' started to take a cheer nigh the door, but Pole stopped 'im.

“'Come heer to the show-case,' ses he; 'I want to show you some 'n'.'The feller went, an' I seed Pole yank out the box 'at had the rest o' the pocket-books in it. 'Look y'heer,' Pole said, in a loud, steady voice—you could 'a' heerd 'im clean to the creek—'look y'heer. The regular price o' these books is fifty cents; that's what we sell 'em fer; but you've got to run yore hand down in yore pocket an' give me a dollar fer one quicker'n you ever made a trade in yore life.'

“'What in the hell do you mean?' the feller said.

“'I mean exactly what I said, an' you are a-losin' time.' said Pole, talkin' louder an' louder. 'The price is fifty cents; but you got to gi'me a dollar fer one. Haul 'er out, my friend; haul 'er out! It 'll be the cheapest thing you ever bought in yore life.'

“The feller was as white as a sheet. He gulped two or three times 'fore he spoke, then he said: 'I know what you think; you think I took one t'other day when I was lookin' in the show-case; but you are mistaken.'

“'I never said a word about you takin' one,' Pole yelled at 'im, 'but you'd better yank out that dollar an' buy one; you need it.'

“The feller did it. I heerd the money clink as he laid it on the glass an' I knowed he was convicted.

“'They are only wuth fifty cents,' he said, kinder faint-like.

“'Yo're a liar,' Pole yelled at 'im, 'fer you've jest paid a dollar fer one on yore own accord. Now I 'll jest give you two minutes to straddle that mule. Ef you don't I 'll take you to the sheriff myself, you damned thief.

“'I've always done my tradin' heer,' said the feller, thinkin' that ud sorter pacify Pole, but he said: 'Yes, an' yore stealin', too, I reckon, you black-livered jailbird. Git out, git out!'

“Me 'n' Neil come in when the feller'd gone, but Pole was actually too mad to speak. 'He got off too durned light,' he said, after a while. 'I could 'a' sold 'im a big bill o' goods at a hundred per cent, profit, fer he had plenty o' money. Now he's ridin' off laughin' at me.'”