AS they were driving into the country road, just beyond the straggling houses in the outskirts of the town, going towards the mountains, which lay along the western horizon like blue clouds settling to earth, the planter said:

“I've seen you fishing and hunting with Mayhew's young partner, Nelson Floyd. You and he are rather intimate, are you not?”

“Jest about as friendly as two men can be,” said Pole, “when one's rising in the world an' t'other is eternally at a stand-still or goin' down like a round rock on the side of a mountain. Or maybe I ought to say, when one of 'em has had the pluck to educate hisse'f, an' t'other hardly knows B from a bull's foot. I don't know, captain, why Nelson Floyd's friendly to me. I like him beca'se he is a man from his toe-nails to the end o' the longest hair on his head.”

“I've heard a lot of good things about him,” remarked the planter, “and I understand, too, that he has his faults.”

“They're part of his manhood,” said Pole, philosophically. “Show me a feller without faults, and I'll show you one that's too weak to have 'em. Nelson's got some o' the dust o' the broad road on his coat, an' yet I'd take his place in the general stampede when old Gabe blows his trumpet at the millennium a sight quicker than I'd stand in the shoes o' some o' these jack-leg preachers. I tell you, Captain Duncan, ef the Lord's goin' to make favorites o' some o' the long-faced hypocrits I know, that is robbin' widows an' orphans in the week an' prayin' an' shoutin' on Sunday to pull the wool over folks' eyes, me an' Him won't gee in the hereafter. You know some'n about that boy's start in life, don't you, captain?”

“Not much, I must own,” answered the planter.

“Thar it is,” said Pole, with a condemning sneer; “ef the pore boy had belonged to one o' the big families in yore ring out in Murray—the high an' mighty, that owned niggers, you'd 'a' heard all about him. Captain, nobody on earth knows how that feller has suffered. All his life he's wanted to make some'n of hisse'f, an' has absolutely, to my certain knowledge, had more to contend with than any man alive. He don't even know the exact date of his birth, an' ain't plumb-sure that his name really is Floyd. You see, jest at the close of the war a woman—so sick she could hardly walk—come through the Union lines in East-Tennessee with a baby in her arms. Accordin' to report, she claimed that her name was Floyd, an' called the baby 'Nelson.' She put up at a mountain cabin for the night, a shack whar some pore razor-back whites lived by name o' Perdue. Old man Perdue was a lyin', treacherous scamp, a bushwhacker and a mountain outlaw, an' his wife was a good mate to him. Nelson's mammy, as I say, was tuck in, but thar wasn't no doctor nigh, an' very little to eat, an' the next mornin' she was ravin' out of her head, and late that day she died. I'm tellin' you now all that Nelson Floyd ever was able to find out, as it come down to him from one person's recollection to another's. Well, the woman was buried somers, nobody knows whar, an' old Mrs. Perdue kept the baby more beca'se she was afeard to put it out o' the way than fer any pity fer it. She had a whole litter of brats of her own goin' about winter an' summer in the'r shirt-tails, an' so she left Nelson to scratch fer hisself. Then the authorities made it hot fer Perdue on some charges agin 'im, and he left the child with another mountain family by name o' Scott and moved clean out of the country. The Scotts couldn't remember much more than hearsay about how Nelson got thar, an' they didn't care, though they tried to raise the boy along with three of their own. He had a tough time of it, for he was a plucky little devil, and had a fight with somebody mighty nigh every day. And as he growed up he naturally fell into bad company, or it fell into him like everything else did, an' he tuck to drinkin' an' finally become a regular young outlaw; he was a bloodthirsty rowdy before he was fifteen; shot at one man fer some cause or other an' barely escaped bein' put up fer life—nothin' but bein' so young got 'im off. But one day—now I'm givin' it to you jest as Nelson told me—one day he said he got to thinkin' about the way he was a-goin', and all of his own accord he made up his mind to call a halt. He wanted to cut clean off from his old set, an' so he went to Mayhew, at Springtown, and told him he wanted to git work in the store. Old Mayhew would skin a flea fer its hide an' tallow, an', seein' his money in the boy, he bound 'im to an agreement to work fer his bare board an' clothes fer three years.”

“Low enough wages, certainly!” exclaimed the planter.

“Yes, but Nelson didn't grumble, and Mayhew will tell you hisself that thar never was sech a worker sence the world was made. He was a general hand at ever'thing, and as bright as a new dollar and as quick as a steel-trap. The Lord only knows when or how he did it, fer nobody ever seed a book in his hands in business hours, but he l'arned to read and write and figure. An' that wasn't all. Old Mayhew was sech an old skinflint, and so hard on folks who got in his debt, that nobody traded at his shebang except them that couldn't go anywhars else; but lo and behold! Nelson made so many friends that they begun to flock around 'im from all directions, an' the business of the house was more than doubled. Mayhew knowed the cause of it, fer lots o' customers throwed it up to 'im. The prosperity was almost too much fer the old skunk; in fact, he got mighty nigh scared at it, and actually tried to dam the stream o' profit. To keep up sech a business, big credit had to be extended, and it was a new venture fer the cautious old scamp. But Nelson had perfect faith in all his friends, and thar it stood—a beardless boy holdin' forth that it was the old man's chance of a lifetime to git rich, and Mayhew half believin' it, crazy to act on Nelson's judgment, an' yet afraid it would be ruination. That was at the close of the boy's three-year contract. He was then about twenty year old, and I was in the store 'and heard the talk between 'em. We was all a-settin' at the big wood stove in the back end—me an' the old man, an' Nelson, and Joe Peters, a clerk, who is still there but was then workin' on trial. I shall never forget that night as long as I live. I gloried in Nelson's spunk to sech an extent I could 'a' throwed up my hat an' hollered.

“'I've been waitin' to have a talk with you, Mr. Mayhew,' the boy said. 'Our contract is out today, and you and me disagree so much about runnin' the business that I hardly know what I ought to do an' not stand in my own light. We've got to make a fresh contract, anyway.'

“'I knowed that was comin',' old Mayhew said, with one o' his big, hoggish grunts. 'People for miles around have made it the'r particular business to fill you up with ideas about what you are wuth. I've thought some about lettin' you go an' see ef me an' Joe cayn't keep things a-movin'; but you know the trade round here, an' I want to do the fair thing. What do you think yore time's wuth?” Pole laughed. “The old skunk was usin' exactly the same words he'd 'a' used ef he'd been startin' in to buy a load o' produce an' wanted to kill expectation at the outset.

“'I. want fifty dollars a month, under certain conditions'' the boy said, lookin' the old skinflint straight in the eye.

“'Fifty—huh! yo're crazy—stark, starin' crazy, plumb off yore base!' the old man said, his lip twisted up like it is when he's mad. 'I see myse'f payin' a beardless boy a Broadway salary to work in a shack like this out here in the mountains.'

“'Well, I'll jest be obliged to quit you then,' Nelson said, as steady as a mill-pond on a hot day in August, 'an' I'd sorter hate to do it. Moore & Trotter at Darley offer me that fer the fust six months, with an increase later.'

“'Moore & Trotter!' the old skunk grunted loud enough to be heard clean to the court-house across the street. They was the only firm in this end o' the state that controlled as much custom as Mayhew did, an' it struck the old chump under the ribs. He got up from his chair an' walked clean down to the front-door. It was shet an' locked; but thar was a lamp on the show-case nigh whar he stopped, an' I could see his old face a-workin' under the influence o' good an' evil. Purty soon he grunted, an' come back, thumpin' his old stick agin barrels an' boxes along the way.

“'How am I goin' to know whether Moore & Trotter offered you that much or not?' he axed.

“'Beca'se I said so,' Nelson told 'im, an' his dark eyes was flashin' like lightnin'. He stood up an' faced the old codger. 'I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Mayhew,' he let fly at 'im, 'ef you don't know whether I'm tellin' the truth or not you'd better not keep me, fer a man that will lie will steal. I say they offered me fifty dollars. I've got the'r written proposition in my pocket, but I'll be hanged ef I show it to you!'”

“Good!” exclaimed the planter.

“Well, it knocked the old man clean off his feet,” Pole went on. “He sat down in his chair again, all of a tremble, an' white about the mouth. Stingy folks git scared to death at the very idea o' payin' out money, anyway, an' stingy don't fit that old cuss. Ef Noah Webster had knowed him he'd 'a' made another word fer that meanin'. I don't know but he'd simply 'a' spelled out the old man's name an' 'a' been done with it.”

“What final answer did Mayhew give the young man, Baker?” asked the planter, in a tone which indicated no little interest.

“Why, he jest set still fer a while,” said Pole, “an' me an' Joe Peters was a-wonderin' what he'd say. He never did anything sudden. Ef he ever gits to heaven he'll feel his way through the gate an' want to know ef thar's any other entrance. I seed 'im keep a woman standin' in the store once from breakfast to dinner time while he was lookin' fer a paper o' needles she'd called fer. Every now an' then he'd quit huntin' fer the needles an' go an' wait on some other customer, an' then come back to 'er. She was a timid sort o' thing, an' didn't seem to think she had the right to leave, bein' as she had started the search. Whenever she'd go towards the door to see ef her hoss was standin', he'd call 'er back an' ax 'er about 'er crap an' tell 'er not to be in a hurry, that Rome wasn't built in a day, an' the like. You know the old cuss has some education. Finally he found the needles an' tuck another half an' hour to select a scrap o' paper little enough to wrap 'em up in. But you axed me what Nelson said to 'im. Huh! the boy was too good a trader to push a matter like that to a head. He'd throwed down the bars, an' he jest waited fer the old man to come into the grass of his own accord. Finally Mayhew axed, as indifferent as he could under all his excitement: 'When do you intend to answer the letter you say you got from Moore & Trotter?'

“'I expect to answer it to-night,' Nelson said. 'I shall tell 'em I appreciate the'r offer an' will run over an' see 'em day after to-morrow.'”

“Good! very well said, Baker,” laughed Captain Duncan. “No wonder the young man's got rich. You can't keep talent like that down. But what did old Mayhew say?”

“It was like pullin' eye-teeth,” answered Pole. “But he finally come across. 'Well,' said he, 'I reckon you kin make yorese'f as useful to me as you kin to them, an' ef you are bent on ridin' me to death, after I picked you up, an' give you a start, an' l'arnt you how to do business, I reckon I'll have to put up with it.'

“'I don't feel like I owe you anything,' said Nelson, as plucky as a banker demandin' good security on a loan. 'I've worked for you like a slave for three years for my bare livin' an' my experience, an' from now on I am goin' to work for number one. I said that I'd stay for fifty dollars a month on certain conditions.'

“'Conditions?' the old man growled. 'What conditions do you mean?'

“'Why, it's jest this,' said Nelson. 'I've had my feelin's, an' the feelin's o' my friends, hurt time after time by you turnin' 'em away without credit, when I knowed they would meet the'r obligations. Now, ef I stay with you, it is with the distinct understandin' that I have the authority to give or refuse credit whenever I see fit.'

“That knocked the old man off his perch ag'in. He wilted an' sat thar as limp as a dish-rag. Joe Peters worships the ground Nelson walks on, an', as much as he fears the old man, he busted out in a big chuckle an' rubbed his hands together. Besides, he knowed Nelson was talkin' fer the interest o' the business. He'd seed no end o' good customers sent off fer no reason in the world than that Mayhew was scared o' his shadow.

“'I'll never consent to that, anyway,' Mayhew said, mighty nigh clean whipped out.

“'Well, Moore & Trotter will,' Nelson said. 'That's one o' the things laid down in the'r proposition.' An' the boy went to the desk an' drawed out a sheet o' paper an' dipped his pen in the ink. The old man set quiverin' awhile, an' then got up an' went an' stood behind the boy. 'Put down yore pen,' said he, with a deep sigh from away down inside of 'im. 'It would ruin me fer you to move to Darley—half the trade would follow you. Go ahead, I'll keep you, an' run the risk.'”

The planter had been listening attentively, and he now said, admiringly: “Even at that early age the boy was showing the talent that developed later. It wasn't long after that, I believe, before he became the old man's partner.”

“The next year,” answered Pole. “He saved every dollar of his wages and made some good investments that turned out money. It wasn't a big slice of the business at fust, but he owns a half now, an', countin' his outside interests, he's wuth as much as old Mayhew. He's rich already, captain.”

“So I've heard the women say,” smiled the planter. “Women always keep track of well-to-do unmarried men.”

“It hain't 'spiled Nelson one bit, nuther,” added Baker. “He's the same unselfish friend to me as he ever was, and I hain't hardly got a roof to cover me an' mine. But as solid as he always was, he had a serious back-set about three years ago, and all his well-wishers thought it was goin' to do him up.”

“You mean when he took to drinking,” said Captain Duncan, interrogatively.

“Yes, that's what I mean. He'd formed the habit when he was a boy, and along with his prosperity an' late work-hours it begun to fasten its claws on 'im like it has on some other folks I know, captain. He had a lot o' night work to do, an' Thigpen's bar was right 'j'inin' the store. Nelson used to slide in at the back-door whenever the notion struck 'im; and he made the trail hot, I tell you. Old Mayhew kept a sharp eye on 'im, an' every now an' then he'd git powerful blue over the way things was a-goin'. Finally the old cuss got desperate an' called a halt. He had a straight talk with Nelson, an' told 'im they would have to divide the'r interests, that he wasn't a drinkin' man hisse'f, an' he didn't want to be yoked to a feller that was soaked half the time. It fetched the boy to his senses. He come over to my house that night an' called me out to the fence.

“'I want to make a deal with you, Pole,' said he.

“'With me?' says I. 'What sort of a deal?'

“'Why,' said he, 'I've made up my mind to swear off fer good an' all, an' I want you to jine me.'

“I agreed all right,” Pole laughed. “In fact, I was sorter in that business; I'd promised every preacher an' temperance worker in the county to quit, an' I couldn't refuse a friend what I was dispensin' so freely right an' left. So I said, said I: 'All right, Nelson, I'm with you.'”

“And how did it come out?” questioned the planter, as he bowed to a wagonful of farmers going in an opposite direction.

“His vaccination tuck,” Pole smiled. “He had a mighty sore arm fer a week or so, but he helt out. As fer me, I was so dem glad to see his success in abstainin' that I started in to celebrate. I did try, though. One mornin' I went in the store an' seed Nelson have sech a clean, prosperous look an' so well satisfied with his stand that I went out with fresh resolutions. What did I do? I went to the bar-room an' bought four pint bottles o' red rye an' tuck 'em home with me. I set 'em all in a straight row on the mantel-shelf, nigh the edge, in front o' the clock, an' was standin' lookin' at 'em when Sally, my wife, come in. She seed the display, an' jest set kerflop down in her chair an' begun to whimper.

“'You hold on!' said I; 'don't you cross a foot-log till the tree's down. I'm tryin' a new dicker. I've always heard that “familiarity breeds contempt,” an' I've also heard that “the hair o' the dog is good fer the bite.” Now, I've tried my level best to quit liquor by stayin' away from it, an' I'm a-goin' to see ef I cayn't do it with its eye on me all the time.' Well, sir, the sweet little woman—she's a sweet, dear little creature, Captain Duncan, ef I do say it myse'f.”

“I've always heard so, Baker,” the planter said. “She's very popular with your neighbors.”

“An' I'm jest t'other way,” said Pole. “Well, Sally she got up an' kissed me, an' said that somehow she felt like my plan would work.”

“And did it?—I mean”—the captain recalled Pole's spree of only the night before—“I mean, did it work for any length of time?”

“I was goin' on to tell you,” answered the mountaineer. “That night fer the fust time sence my marriage I woke smack dab in the middle o' the night, an' as I laid thar in the room filled with moonlight I couldn't see a blessed thing but that row o' bottles, an' then my mouth set in to waterin' at sech a rate that I got afeard I'd ketch my death from sleepin' on a wet pillow. It was certainly a struggle with the flesh. I'd put my thirst, captain, when she's good an' dry, ag'in any that ever tickled a human throat. It ud take the blue ribbon at a convention o' drunkards. It's a rale thing; it kin walk, an' talk, an' kick, an' squirm, but it won't be dictated to. Finally Sally woke up an' said:

“'What's the matter, Pole? Hain't you comfortable?'

“'Comfortable the devil!' said I—I'm usually polite to Sally, but I felt like that wasn't no time an' place to talk about little matters. 'Comfortable nothin',' said I. 'Sally, ef you don't take that “doghair” out o' this house an' hide it, I'll be as drunk as a b'iled owl in ten minutes.'

“'Dog-hair?' said she, an' then the little woman remembered, an' she got up. I heard the bottles tinkle like sorrowful good-bye bells callin' wanderin' friends back to the fold as she tuck 'em up an' left. Captain, I felt jest like”—Pole laughed good-naturedly—“I felt like thar was a mean, stinkin' plot agin the best friends I ever had. I actually felt sorry fer them thar bottles, an' I got up an' stood at the window an' watched Sally as she tuck 'em away out in the lonely moonlight to the barn. I seed 'er climb over the fence o' the cow-lot an' go in at the side whar I kept my hay an' fodder an' roughness fer my cattle. Then I laid down in bed ag'in.”

“You acted right,” said the planter; “and you deserve credit for putting your foot down so firmly on what you felt was so injurious, even, even”—the captain came back again to reality—“even if you didn't remain firm very long afterwards.”

“Well, I'll tell you one thing—” The ex-moonshiner laughed again, and his eyes twinkled. “It tuck Sally longer, it seemed to me, to git to sleep after she got back than it ever had in all her life. Of all times on earth, she wanted to talk. But I shet her off. I made like I was breathin' good an' deep, an' then she set in, too. What did I do? Captain Duncan, I spent the best half o' that night out in the barn lookin' fer hens' nests. I found two, an' had to be put to bed at sun-up.”

The planter laughed. “There is one good thing about the situation, Baker,” he said, “and that is your making a joke of it. I believe you will get the under-hold of the thing some day and throw it over. Coming back to your friend Floyd, it's true he gave up whiskey, but if reports are reliable he has another fault that is quite as bad.”

“Oh, you mean all that talk about that girl,” answered the mountaineer.

“Yes, Baker, a reputation of that sort is not a desirable thing in any community. I know that many brainy and successful men hold that kind of thing lightly, but it will down anybody who tampers with it.”

“Now, look here, captain,” Pole said, sharply; “don't you be an old woman! 'Ain't you got more sense 'an to swallow everything that passes among idle gossips in these mountains? Nelson Floyd has got a backbone full o' the fire o' youth an' is a hot-blooded young chap, but he's, to my positive knowledge, one o' the cleanest boys I ever come across. To tell you the truth, I don't believe he ever made but that one slip. It got out, unfortunately, an' beca'se he was rich an' prominent it raised a regular whirlwind o' talk an' exaggeration. If it had happened to half a dozen other young men round about here, not a word would 'a' been said.”

'“Oh, I see,” smiled the planter, “he's not as black as he's painted, then.”

“Not by a jugful,” said the farmer. “I tell you he's all right, an' folks will know it 'fore long.”

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