WHEN he had finished his interview with Judge Spence in Atlanta the next day, Pole went to a drug-store and looked up the address of Henry A. Floyd in the city directory. The old bachelor lived on Peachtree Street, about half a mile from the Union Depot, in a rather antiquated story-and-a-half frame house, which must have been built before the Civil War. The once white paint on its outside had turned to a weather-beaten gray, and the old-fashioned blinds, originally bright green in color, had faded, and hung loosely on rusty hinges. There was a little lawn in front which stretched from the gateless iron fence to the low-floored veranda, but it held scarcely a tuft of grass, the ground being bare in some places and in others weed-grown. Pole went to the door and rang. He was kept waiting for several minutes before a middle-aged woman, evidently a servant of all work or house-keeper, appeared.

“Is Mr. Floyd about?” Pole asked, politely, doffing his slouch hat.

“He's back in the garden behind the house,” the woman said. “If you'll wait here I'll go call him.”

“All right, ma'am,” Pole said. “I'll wait; I've got plenty o' time.” She went away, and he sat down on a rickety bench on the veranda, his hat still in his hands, his eyes on the passing carriages and street-cars.

Presently the owner of the house appeared round the corner. He was tall, clerical looking, ashy as to complexion, slightly bald, had sunken cheeks over which grew thin, iron-gray side-whiskers, and a despondent stoop.

“I'll have to git at that old skunk through his pocket,” Pole reflected, as his keen eyes took in every detail of the man's make-up. “He looks like he's bothered about some'n', an' a man like that's hard to git pinned down; an' ef I don't git 'im interested, he'll kick me out o' this yard. I'll be derned ef he don't favor Nelson a little about the head an' eyes.”

“How are you, Mr. Floyd?” Pole stood up and extended his hand. “Baker's my name, sir; from up the country. I was on yore farm in Bartow not long ago, an' I sorter liked the lay o' the land. Bein' as I was down here on business, anyhow, I 'lowed I'd drap in an' ax ef you had any part o' that place you'd care to rent. I've jest got two hosses, but I want to put in about thirty acres.”

A slight touch of life seemed to struggle into the wan face of the old man for a moment.

“I've got just about that many acres unrented,” he said. “The rest is all let out. You'd have good neighbors, Mr.—”

“Baker, sir—Pole Baker,” the caller put in.

“And good fertile land, too, Mr. Baker. May I ask if you intend to rent on the part-crop plan or for cash?”

Pole's eyes twinkled as they rested on a pair of fine horses and glittering carriage that were passing. “Ef I rent yore'n, Mr. Floyd, I'll pay cash.”

“Well, that certainly is the wisest plan, Mr. Baker.” There was a still greater show of life in the old man's face; in fact, he almost smiled. “Come inside a minute. I've got a map of my property, showing just how each section lies and how it's drained and watered.” He opened the door and led Pole into a wide hall, and thence, to the right, into a big, bare-looking parlor. “Have a seat, Mr. Baker; my desk is in the little room adjoining.” Pole sat down, crossed his long legs, and put his hat on his knee. When he found himself alone he smiled. “Captain Duncan thought a crabbed old cuss like that 'ud be interested in pore kin,” he mused. “Huh! nothin' short o' Vanderbilts an' Jay Goulds 'ud start his family pulse to beatin'. Le' me see, now, how I'd better begin to—”

“Here it is, Mr. Baker.” Floyd entered with a map and pencil in his hand. “If you looked the place over when you were there, you may remember that the creek winds round from the bridge to the foot of the hill. Well, right in there—”

“I know, and that's dandy land, Mr. Floyd,” Pole broke in. “That's as good as you got, I reckon.”

“The very best, Mr. Baker—in fact, it's the part I always rent for cash. I have to have ready money for taxes and interest and the like, you know, and when I strike a man who is able to pay in advance, why, I can make him a reasonable figure, and he gets the best.”

“It's got a good house on it, too, I believe?” Pole was stroking his chin with a thoughtful air.

“Six rooms, and a well and stable and good cow-house, Mr. Baker.” Old Floyd was actually beaming.

“Does the roof leak?” Pole looked at him frankly. “I won't take my wife and children into a leaky house, Mr. Floyd. If I pay out my money, I want ordinary comfort.”

“Doesn't leak a drop, Mr. Baker.”

Pole stroked his chin for another minute. He was looking down at the worn carpet, but he felt Floyd's eyes fastened eagerly on him.

“Well, what's yore figure, Mr. Floyd?”

“Two hundred dollars a year—half when you move in, and the rest a month later.” The old man seemed to hold his breath. The paper which he was folding quivered.

“Well, I wouldn't kick about the price,” Pole said. “The only thing that—” Pole seemed to hesitate for a moment, then he went on. “I never like to act in a hurry in important business matters, an' I generally want to be sorter acquainted with a man I deal with. You see, ef I moved on that place it 'ud be to stay a long time, an' thar'd be things on yore side to do year after year. I generally ax fer references, but I'm a-goin' to be straight with you, Mr. Floyd; somehow, I feel all right about you. I like yore face. The truth is, you have a strong favor to a feller up our way. He's the richest young man we got, an' the finest ever God's sun shone on. An' as soon as I heard yore name was Floyd—the same as his is—somehow I felt like you an' him was kin, an' that I wouldn't lose by dealin' with you. Blood will tell, you know.”

“Why, who do you mean?” The old man stared in pleased surprise. “All the Floyds I know were broken up by the war. I must say none of them are really rich.”

“This Floyd is, you kin bet yore boots on that,” Pole said, enthusiastically. “He owns mighty nigh the whole o' our county; he's the biggest moneylender and investor in stocks and bonds I know of. He's fine all round: he'd fight a buzz-saw barehanded; he's got more friends than you kin shake a stick at; he could walk into Congress any election ef he'd jest pass the word out that he wanted the job.”

“Why, this is certainly news to me,” the old man said. “And you say he resembles me?”

“Got yore eyes to a T, an' long, slim hands like yore'n, an' the same shape o' the head an' neck! Why, shorely you've heard o' Nelson Floyd, junior member o' Mayhew & Floyd, of Springtown, the biggest dealers o' farm supplies in—”

“Oh, Nelson Floyd! Why—why, surely there must be some mistake. He hasn't made money, has he? Why, the only time I ever heard of him he was in destitute circumstances, and—”

“Destitute hell!—I beg yore pardon, Mr. Floyd, that slipped out. But that feller's not only not destitute, but he's the friend o' the destitute. What he does fer the pore an' sufferin' every year 'ud start many a man in life.”

A flush had crept into Floyd's face, and he leaned forward in warm eagerness. “The truth is, Mr. Baker, that Nelson Floyd is the only child of all the brother I ever had.”

“You don't say!” exclaimed Pole, holding the old man's eyes firmly, “which brother was that?”

“Charles Nelson—two years younger than I am. The truth is, he and I became estranged. He broke my mother's heart, Mr. Baker. He was very wild and dissipated, though he died bravely in battle. I would have looked after his son, but I lost sight of him and his mother after the war, and, then, I had my own troubles. There are circumstances, too, which I don't care to go over with a—a stranger. But I'm glad the young man has done well. The first I heard of him was about ten years ago. He was then said to be a sort of wild mountain outlaw. It was not natural for me to feel pride in him, or—”

“He was wild about that time,” Pole said, as he stood up to go, “but he settled down and made a man of hisse'f. I'll let you know about that land, Mr. Floyd. Ef you don't hear from me by—this is Tuesday, ain't it?—ef you don't hear from me by Saturday, you may know that my wife has decided to stay on up the country.”

“But”—Floyd's face had fallen—“I hope nothing won't interfere with our deal, Baker. I'd like to have you on my place. I really would.”

“All right, we'll live in hopes,” said the mountaineer, “ef we die in despair,” and Pole went out into the sunlight.

“Now, Poley,” he chuckled, “who said you couldn't git all you was after? But lie! My Lord, I don't know when I'll ever git all that out o' my body. I feel like I am literally soaked in black falsehood, like a hide in a vat at a tanyard. It's leakin' out o' the pores o' my skin an' runnin' down into my socks. But that dried-up old skunk made me do it. Ef he hadn't a-been so 'feared o' pore kin, I wouldn't 'a' had to sink so low. Well, I've got news fer Nelson, an' that's what I was after.”

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