HE following Saturday Alan went to Darley, as he frequently did, to spend Sunday. On such visits he usually stayed at the Johnston House, a great, old-fashioned brick building that had survived the Civil War and remained untouched by the shot and shell that hurtled over it during that dismal period when most of the population had “refugeed farther south.” It had four stories, and was too big for the town, which could boast of only two thousand inhabitants, one-third of whom were black. However, the smallness of the town was in the hotel's favor, for in a place where no one would have patronized a second-class hotel, opposition would have died a natural death. The genial proprietor and his family were of the best blood, and the Johnston House was a sort of social club-house, where the church people held their affairs and the less serious element gave dances. To be admitted to the hotel without having to pay for one's dinner was the hallmark of social approval. It was near the ancient-looking brick car-shed under which the trains of two main lines ran, and a long freight warehouse of the same date and architecture. Around the hotel were clustered the chief financial enterprises of the town—its stores, post-office, banks, and a hall for theatrical purposes. Darley was the seat of its county, and another relic of the days before the war was its court house. The principal sidewalks were paved with brick, which in places were damp and green, and sometimes raised above their common level by the undergrowing roots of the sycamore-trees that edged the streets.

In the office of the hotel, just after registering his name, Alan met his friend Rayburn Miller, for whose business ability, it may be remembered, Abner Daniel had such high regard. He was a fine-looking man of thirty-three, tall and of athletic build; he had dark eyes and hair, and a ruddy, out-door complexion.

“Hello,” he said, cordially. “I thought you might get in to-day, so I came round to see. Sorry you've taken a room. I wanted you to sleep with me to-night. Sister's gone, and no one is there but the cook. Hello, I must be careful. I'm drumming for business right under Sanford's nose.”

“I 'll make you stay with me to make up for it,” said Alan, as the clerk behind the counter laughed good-naturedly over the allusion to himself.

“Blamed if I don't think about it,” said Miller. “Come round to the office. I want to talk to you. I reckon you've got every plough going such weather as this.”

“Took my horse out of the field to drive over,” said Alan, as they went out and turned down to a side street where there was a row of law offices, all two-roomed buildings, single-storied, built of brick, and bearing battered tin signs. One of these buildings was Miller's, which, like all its fellows, had its door wide open, thus inviting all the lawyers in the “row” and all students of law to enter and borrow books or use the ever-open desk.

Rayburn Miller was a man among ten thousand in his class. Just after being graduated at the State University he was admitted to the bar and took up the practice of law. He could undoubtedly have made his way at this alone, had not other and more absorbing talents developed within him. Having had a few thousand dollars left him at his father's death, he began to utilize this capital in “note shaving,” and other methods of turning over money for a handsome profit furnished by the unsettled conditions, the time, and locality. He soon became an adept in many lines of speculation, and as he was remarkably shrewd and cautious, it is not to be wondered at that he soon accumulated quite a fortune.

“Take a seat,” he said to Alan, as they went into the office, and he threw himself into the revolving-chair at his littered desk. “I want to talk to you. I suppose you are in for some fun. The boys are getting up a dance at the hotel and they want your dollar to help pay the band. It's a good one this time. They've ordered it from Chattanooga. It will be down on the seven-thirty-five. Got a match?”

Alan had not, and Miller turned his head to the open door. An old negro happened to be passing, with an axe on his shoulder.

“Heigh, there, Uncle Ned!” Miller called out.

The negro had passed, but he heard his name called and he came back and looked in at the door.

“Want me, Marse Rayburn?”

“Yes, you old scamp; get me a match or I 'll shoot the top of your head off.”

“All right, suh; all right, Marse Rayburn!”

“You ought to know him,” said Miller, with a smile, as the negro hurried into the adjoining office. “His wife cooks for Colonel Barclay; he might tell you if Miss Dolly's going to-night, but I know she is. Frank Hillhouse checked her name off the list, and I heard him say she'd accepted. By-the-way, that fellow will do to watch. I think he and the Colonel are pretty thick.”

“Will you never let up on that?” Alan asked with a flush.

“I don't know that I shall,” laughed Rayburn. “It seems so funny to see you in love, or, rather, to see you think you are.”

“I have never said I was,” said Alan, sharply.

“But you show it so blamed plain,” said Miller.

“Heer 'tis, Marse Rayburn. Marse Trabue said you could have a whole box ef you'd put up wid sulphur ones.”

Miller took the matches from the outstretched hand and tossed a cigar to Alan. “Say, Uncle Ned,” he asked, “do you know that gentleman?” indicating Alan with a nod of his head.

A quizzical look dawned in the old negro's eyes, and then he gave a resounding guffaw and shook all over.

“I reckon I know his hoss, Marse Rayburn,” he tittered.

“That's a good one on you, Alan,” laughed Miller. “He knows your 'hoss.'I 'll have to spring that on you when I see you two together.”

As the negro left the office Mr. Trabue leaned in the doorway, holding his battered silk hat in his hand and mopping his perspiring face.

He nodded to Alan, and said to Miller: “Do you want to write?”

“Not any more for you, thanks,” said Miller. “I have the back-ache now from those depositions I made out for you yesterday.”

“Oh, I don't mean that,” the old lawyer assured him, “but I had to borrow yore ink just now, and seein' you at yore desk I thought you might need it.”

“Oh, if I do,” jested Miller, “I can buy another bottle at the book-store. They pay me a commission on the ink I furnish the row. They let me have it cheap by the case. What stumps me is that you looked in to see if I needed it. You are breaking the rule, Mr. Trabue. They generally make me hunt for my office furniture when I need it. They've borrowed everything I have except my iron safe. Their ignorance of the combination, its weight, and their confirmed laziness is all that saved it.”

When the old lawyer had gone the two friends sat and smoked in silence for several minutes. Alan was studying Miller's face. Something told him that the news of his father's disaster had reached him, and that Miller was going to speak of it. He was not mistaken, for the lawyer soon broached the subject.

“I've been intending to ride out to see you almost every day this week,” he said, “but business has always prevented my leaving town.”

“Then you have heard—”

“Yes, Alan, I'm sorry, but it's all over the country. A man's bad luck spreads as fast as good war news. I heard it the next day after your father returned from Atlanta, and saw the whole thing in a flash. The truth is, Perkins had the cheek to try his scheme on me. I'm the first target of every scoundrel who has something to sell, and I've learned many of their tricks. I didn't listen to all he had to say, but got rid of him as soon as I could. You must not blame the old man. As I see it now, it was a most plausible scheme, and the shame of it is that no one can be handled for it. I don't think the Tompkins heirs knew anything of Perkins's plans at all, except that he was to get a commission, perhaps, if the property was sold. Trabue is innocent, too—a cat's-paw. As for Perkins, he has kept his skirts clear of prosecution. Your father will have to grin and bear it. He really didn't pay a fabulous price for the land, and if he were in a condition to hold on to it for, say, twenty-five years, he might not lose money; but who can do that sort of thing? I have acres and acres of mountain-land offered me at a much lower figure, but what little money I've made has been made by turning my capital rapidly. Have you seen Dolly since it happened?”

“No, not for two weeks,” replied Alan. “I went to church with her Sunday before last, and have not seen her since. I was wondering if she had heard about it.”

“Oh yes; she's heard it from the Colonel. It may surprise you, but the thing has rubbed him the wrong way.”

“Why, I don't understand,” exclaimed Alan. “Has he—”

“The old man has had about two thousand acres of land over near your father's purchases, and it seems that he was closely watching all your father's deals, and, in spite of his judgment to the contrary, Mr. Bishop's confidence in that sort of real-estate has made him put a higher valuation on his holdings over there. So you see, now that your father's mistake is common talk, he is forced to realize a big slump, and he wants to blame some one for it. I don't know but that your father or some one else made him an offer for his land which he refused. So you see it is only natural for him to be disgruntled.”

“I see,” said Alan. “I reckon you heard that from Miss Dolly?”

Miller smoked slowly.

“Yes”—after a pause—“I dropped in there night before last and she told me about it. She's not one of your surface creatures. She talks sensibly on all sorts of subjects. Of course, she's not going to show her heart to me, but she couldn't hide the fact that your trouble was worrying her a good deal. I think she'd like to see you at the ball to-night. Frank Hillhouse will give you a dance or two. He's going to be hard to beat. He's the most attentive fellow I ever run across. He's got a new buggy—a regular hug-me-tight—and a high-stepping Kentucky mare for the summer campaign. He 'll have some money at his father's death, and all the old women say he's the best catch in town because he doesn't drink, has a Sunday-school class, and will have money. We are all going to wear evening-suits to-night. There are some girls from Rome visiting Hattie Alexander, and we don't want them to smell hay in our hair. You know how the boys are; unless all of us wear spike-tails no one will, so we took a vote on it and we 'll be on a big dike. There 'll be a devilish lot of misfits. Those who haven't suits are borrowing in all directions. Frank Buford will rig out in Colonel Day's antebellum toggery. Did you bring yours?”

“It happens to be at Parker's shop, being pressed,” said Alan.

“I've had three in the last six years,” laughed Miller. “You know how much larger Todd Selman is than I am; he bursted one of mine from collar to waist last summer at the Springs, and sweated so much that you could dust salt out of it for a month afterwards. I can't refuse 'em, God bless 'em! Jeff Higgins married in my best Prince Albert last week and spilled boiled custard on it; but he's got a good wife and a fair job on a railroad in Tennessee now. I'd have given him the coat, but he'd never have accepted it, and been mad the rest of his life at my offer. Parker said somebody had tried to scrape the custard off with a sharp knife, and that he had a lot of trouble cleaning it. I wore the coat yesterday and felt like I was going to be married. Todd must have left some of his shivers in it I reckon that's as near as I 'll ever come to the hitching-post.”

Just then a tall, thin man entered. He wore a rather threadbare frock-coat, unevenly bound with braid, and had a sallow, sunken, and rather long face. It was Samuel Craig, one of the two private bankers of the town. He was about sixty years of age and had a pronounced stoop.

“Hello!” he said, pleasantly; “you young bloods are a-goin' to play smash with the gals' hearts to-night, I reckon. I say go it while you are young. Rayburn, I want to get one of them iron-clad mortgage-blanks. I've got a feller that is disposed to wiggle, an' I want to tie 'im up. The inventor of that form is a blessing to mankind.”

“Help yourself,” smiled Miller. “I was just telling Mr. Trabue that I was running a stationery store, and if I was out of anything in the line I'd order it for him.”

The banker laughed good-humoredly as he selected several of the blanks from the drawer Rayburn had opened in the desk.

“I hope you won't complain as much of hard times as Jake Pitner does,” he chuckled. “I passed his store the other day, where he was standin' over some old magazines that he'd marked down.

“'How's trade?' I asked 'im. 'It's gone clean to hell,' he said, and I noticed he'd been drinking. 'I 'll give you a sample of my customers,' he went on. 'A feller from the mountains come in jest now an' asked the price of these magazines. I told him the regular price was twenty-five cents apiece, but I'd marked 'em down to five. He looked at 'em for about half a hour an' then said he wasn't goin' out o' town till sundown an' believed he'd take one if I'd read it to him.'”

Craig laughed heartily as he finished the story, and Alan and Miller joined in.

“I want you to remember that yarn when you get to over-checkin' on me,” said Craig, jestingly. “I was just noticing this morning that you have drawn more than your deposit.”

“Over-checked?” said Miller. “You 'll think I have when all my checks get in. I mailed a dozen to-day. They 'll slide in on you in about a week and you 'll telegraph Bradstreet's to know how I stand. This is a fine banker,” Miller went on to Alan. “He twits me about over-checking occasionally. Let me tell you something. Last year I happened to have ten thousand dollars on my hands waiting for a cotton factory to begin operations down in Alabama, and as I had no idea when the money would be called for I placed it with his nibs here 'on call.'Things got in a tangle at the mill and they kept waiting, and our friend here concluded I had given it to him.”

“I thought you had forgotten you had it,” said Craig, with another of his loud, infectious laughs.

“Anyway,” went on Miller, “I got a sudden order for the amount and ran in on him on my way from the post-office. I made out my check and stuck it under his nose. Great Scott! you ought to have seen him wilt. I don't believe he had half of it in the house, but he had ten million excuses. He kept me waiting two days and hustled around to beat the band. He thought I was going to close him up.”

“That was a close shave,” admitted Craig. “Never mind about the over-checking, my boy; keep it up, if it will help you. You are doing altogether too much business with the other bank to suit me, anyway.”