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.”