AYBURN MILLER and Alan spent that day on the river trying to catch fish, but with no luck at all, returning empty-handed to the farm-house for a late dinner. They passed the afternoon at target-shooting on the lawn with rifles and revolvers, ending the day by a reckless ride on their horses across the fields, over fences and ditches, after the manner of fox-hunting, a sport not often indulged in in that part of the country.

In the evening as they sat in the big sitting-room, smoking after-supper cigars, accompanied by Abner Daniel, with his long, cane-stemmed pipe, Mrs. Bishop came into the room, in her quiet way, smoothing her apron with her delicate hands.

“Pole Baker's rid up an' hitched at the front gate,” she said. “Did you send 'im to town fer anything, Alan?”

“No, mother,” replied her son. “I reckon he's come to get more meat. Is father out there?”

“I think he's some'r's about the stable,” said Mrs. Bishop.

Miller laughed. “I guess Pole isn't the best pay in the world, is he?”

“Father never weighs or keeps account of anything he gets,” said Alan. “They both make a guess at it, when cotton is sold. Father calls it 'lumping' the thing, and usually Pole gets the lump. But he's all right, and I wish we could do more for him. Father was really thinking about helping him in some substantial way when the crash came—”

“Thar!” broke in Daniel, with a gurgling laugh, “I've won my bet. I bet to myse'f jest now that ten minutes wouldn't pass 'fore Craig an' his bu'st-up would be mentioned.”

“We have been at it, off and on, all day,” said Miller, with a low laugh. “The truth is, it makes me madder than anything I ever encountered.”

“Do you know why?” asked Abner, seriously, just as Pole Baker came through the dining-room and leaned against the door-jamb facing them. “It's beca'se”—nodding a greeting to Pole along with the others—“it's beca'se you know in reason that he's got that money.”

“Oh, I wouldn't say that,” protested Miller, in the tone of a man of broad experience in worldly affairs. “I wouldn't say that.”

“Well, I would, an' do,” said Abner, in the full tone of decision. “I know he's got it!”

“Well, yo' re wrong thar, Uncle Ab,” said Pole, striding forward and sinking into a chair. “You've got as good jedgment as any man I ever run across. I thought like you do once. I'd 'a' tuck my oath that he had it about two hours by sun this evenin', but I kin swear he hain't a cent of it now.”

“Do you mean that, Pole?” Abner stared across the wide hearth at him fixedly.

“He hain't got it, Uncle Ab.” Pole was beginning to smile mysteriously. “He did have it, but he hain't got it now. I got it from 'im, blast his ugly pictur'!”

“You got it?” gasped Daniel. “You?”

“Yes. I made up my mind he had it, an' it deviled me so much that I determined to have it by hook or crook, ef it killed me, or put me in hock the rest o' my life.” Pole rose and took a packet wrapped in brown paper from under his rough coat and laid it on the table near Alan. “God bless you, old boy,” he said, “thar's yore money! It's all thar. I counted it. It's in fifties an' hundreds.”

Breathlessly, and with expanded eyes, Alan broke the string about the packet and opened it.

“Great God!” he muttered.

Miller sprang up and looked at the stack of bills, but said nothing. Abner, leaning forward, uttered a little, low laugh.

“You—you didn't kill 'im, did you, Pole, old boy—you didn't, did you?” he asked.

“Didn't harm a hair of his head,” said Pole. “All I wanted was Alan' s money, an' thar it is!”

“Well,” grunted Daniel, “I'm glad you spared his life. And I thank God you got the money.”

Miller was now hurriedly running over the bills.

“You say you counted it, Baker?” he said, pale with pleased excitement.

“Three times; fust when it was turned over to me, an' twice on the way out heer from town.”

Mrs. Bishop had not spoken until now, standing in the shadows of the others as if bewildered by what seemed a mocking impossibility.

“Is it our money—is it our'n?” she finally found voice to say. “Oh, is it, Pole?”

“Yes, 'm,” replied Pole. “It's yo'rn.” He produced a crumpled piece of paper and handed it to Miller. “Heer's Craig's order on his wife fer it, an' in it he acknowledges it's the cash deposited by Mr. Bishop. He won't give me no trouble. I've got 'im fixed. He 'll leave Darley in the mornin'. He's afeerd this 'll git out an' he 'll be lynched.”

Alan was profoundly moved. He transferred his gaze from the money to Pole's face, and leaned towards him.

“You did it out of friendship for me,” he said, his voice shaking.

“That's what I did it fer, Alan, an' I wish I could do it over agin. When I laid hold o' that wad an' knowed it was the thing you wanted more'n anything else, I felt like flyin'.”

“Tell us all about it, Baker,” said Miller, wrapping up the stack of bills.

“All right,” said Pole, but Mrs. Bishop interrupted him.

“Wait fer Alfred,” she said, her voice rising and cracking in delight. “Wait; I 'll run find 'im.”

She went out through the dining-room towards the stables, calling her husband at every step. “Alfred, oh, Alfred!”

“Heer!” she heard him call out from one of the stables.

She leaned over the fence opposite the closed door, behind which she had heard his voice.

“Oh, Alfred!” she called, “come out, quick! I've got news fer you—big, big news!”

She heard him grumbling as he emptied some ears of corn into the trough of the stall containing Alan' s favorite horse, and then with a growl he emerged into the starlight.

“That fool nigger only give Alan's hoss six ears o' corn,” he fumed. “I know, beca'se I counted the cobs; the hoss had licked the trough clean, an' gnawed the ends o' the cobs. The idea o' starvin' my stock right before my—”

“Oh, Alfred, what do you think has happened?” his wife broke in. “We've got the bank money back! Pole Baker managed somehow to get it. He's goin' to tell about it now. Come on in!”

Bishop closed the door behind him; he fumbled with the chain and padlock for an instant, then he moved towards her, his lip hanging, his eyes protruding.

“I 'll believe my part o' that when—”

“But,” she cried, opening the gate for him to pass through, “the money's thar in the house on the table; it's been counted. I say it's thar! Don't you believe it?”

The old man moved through the gate mechanically. He paused to fasten it with the iron ring over the two posts. But after that he seemed to lose the power of locomotion. He stood facing her, his features working.

“I 'll believe my part o' that cat-an'-bull story when I see—”

“Well, come in the house, then,” she cried. “You kin lay yore hands on it an' count it. It's a awful big pile, an' nothin' less than fifty-dollar bills.”

Grasping his arm, she half dragged, half led him into the house. Entering the sitting-room, he strode to the table and, without a word, picked up the package and opened it. He made an effort to count the money, but his fingers seemed to have lost their cunning, and he gave it up.

“It's all there,” Miller assured him, “and it's your money. You needn't bother about that.”

Bishop sat down in his place in the chimney corner, the packet on his knees, while Pole Baker, modestly, and not without touches of humor, recounted his experiences.

“The toughest job I had was managin' the woman,” Pole laughed. “You kin always count on a woman to be contrary. I believe ef you was tryin' to git some women out of a burnin' house they'd want to have the'r way about it. She read the order an' got white about the gills an' screamed, low, so nobody wouldn't heer 'er, an' then wanted to ax questions. That's the female of it. She knowed in reason that Craig was dead fixed an' couldn't git out until she complied with the instructions, but she wanted to know all about it. I reckon she thought he wouldn't give full particulars—an' he won't, nuther. She wouldn't budge to git the money, an' time was a-passin'. I finally had a thought that fetched 'er. I told 'er Craig was confined in a place along with a barrel o' gunpowder; that a slow fuse was burnin' towards 'im, an' that he'd go sky-high at about sundown ef I didn't git thar an' kick out the fire. Then I told 'er she'd be arrested fer holdin' the money, an' that got 'er in a trot. She fetched it out purty quick, a-cryin' an' abusin' me by turns. As soon as the money left 'er hands though, she begun to beg me to ride fast. I wanted to come heer fust; but I felt sorter sorry fer Craig, an' went an' let 'im out. He was the gladdest man to see me you ever looked at. He thought I was goin' to leave 'im thar. He looked like he wanted to hug me. He says Winship wasn't much to blame. They both got in deep water speculatin', an' Craig was tempted to cabbage on the twenty-five thousand dollars.”

When Pole had concluded, the group sat in silence for a long time. It looked as if Bishop wanted to openly thank Pole for what he had done, but he had never done such a thing in the presence of others, and he could not pull himself to it. He sat crouched up in his tilted chair as if burning up with the joy of his release.

The silence was broken by Abner Daniel, as he filled his pipe anew and stood over the fireplace.

“They say money's a cuss an' the root of all evil,” he said, dryly. “But in this case it's give Pole Baker thar a chance to show what's in 'im. I'd 'a' give the last cent I have to 'a' done what he did to-day. I grant you he used deception, but it was the fust-water sort that that Bible king resorted to when he made out he was goin' to divide that baby by cuttin' it in halves. He fetched out the good an' squelched the bad.” Abner glanced at Pole, and gave one of his impulsive inward laughs. “My boy, when I reach t'other shore I expect to see whole strings o' sech law-breakers as you a-playin' leap-frog on the golden sands. You don't sing an' pray a whole lot, nur keep yore religion in sight, but when thar's work to be done you shuck off yore shirt an' do it like a wild-cat a-scratchin'.”

No one spoke after this outburst for several minutes, though the glances cast in his direction showed the embarrassed ex-moonshiner that one and all had sanctioned Abner Daniel's opinion.

Bishop leaned forward and looked at the clock, and seeing that it was nine, he put the money in a bureau-drawer and turned the key. Then he took down the big family Bible from its shelf and sat down near the lamp. They all knew what the action portended.

“That's another thing,” smiled Abner Daniel, while his brother-in-law was searching for his place in the big Book. “Money may be a bad thing, a cuss an' a evil, an' what not, but Alf 'ain't felt like holdin' prayer sence the bad news come; an' now that he's got the scads once more the fust thing is an appeal to the Throne. Yes, it may be a bad thing, but sometimes it sets folks to singin' an' shoutin'. Ef I was a-runnin' of the universe, I believe I'd do a lots o' distributin' in low places. I'd scrape off a good many tops an' level up more. Accordin' to some, the Lord's busy watchin' birds fall to the ground. I reckon our hard times is due to them pesky English sparrows that's overrun ever'thing.”

“You'd better dry up, Uncle Ab,” said Pole Baker. “That's the kind o' talk that made brother Dole jump on you.”

“Huh! That's a fact,” said Daniel; “but this is in the family.”

Then Bishop began to read in his even, declamatory voice, and all the others looked steadily at the fire in the chimney, their faces lighted up by the flickering flames.

When they had risen from their knees after prayer, Pole looked at Abner with eyes from which shot beams of amusement. He seemed to enjoy nothing so much as hearing Abner's religious opinions.

“You say this thing has set Mr. Bishop to prayin', Uncle Ab?” he asked.

“That's what,” smiled Abner, who had never admired Baker so much before. “Ef I stay heer, an' they ever git that railroad through, I'm goin' to have me a pair o' knee-pads made.”